


Friday the 13th: Loved

by AGORAPHOBIQ



Series: Reincarnation Ceremonies [1]
Category: Friday the 13th Series (Movies)
Genre: Ableism, Angst, Animal Abuse, Animal Death, Blood Kink, Blood and Gore, Bullying, Child Abuse, Childhood Trauma, Corpse Desecration, Death, Decapitation, Dismemberment, Dominant Masochism, Drowning, Drug Use, Explicit Language, Gen, Homophobia, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Insecurity, Murder, Mutilation, Piquerism, Psychological Trauma, Racism, Self-Esteem Issues, Self-Harm, Self-Hatred, Sexism, Slurs, Violence, Xenophobia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-31
Updated: 2020-08-31
Packaged: 2021-03-06 20:27:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 21
Words: 102,234
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26214841
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AGORAPHOBIQ/pseuds/AGORAPHOBIQ
Summary: A group of college students embark on a trip to Camp Crystal Lake, the setting of legends regarding a mythological serial killer since the 1980s. After they are attacked, it triggers a series of fateful meetings as the outsiders of the town attempt to uncover the mystery of the fabled Jason Voorhees, all with their own agendas to fulfill.***Partial remake and partial continuation of the Friday the 13th storyline. Basically, an attempt to flesh things out a little bit, if you will. I hope you enjoy it. This is my first full-length fiction work, so feedback is appreciated!
Series: Reincarnation Ceremonies [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1910362
Kudos: 2





	1. Chapter 1

Hunting was never their forte, and hunting at night even less so. These woods got dark without any adjacent civilizations, making the oil lamp an absolute necessity. Unfortunately, it was the equivalent of a siren for every critter in this forest, and the harsh crunch of the leaves under their clunky boots only further betrayed their earnest efforts. The wind blew through the trees, evoking a rustling from the branches much like subdued, judgemental snickering. But they would not give in so easily to such taunts.

It was an adorable little bunny-rabbit. Soft, fluffy grey fur with little spots of tan and white, embedded with big brown eyes. The way it wiggled its tiny pink nose was beyond endearing-- the saccharine aura only intensified by the soft squeezing of the chubby cheeks which accompanied the wiggling. They acknowledged the sweet innocence of the bunny, and were determined to slaughter it.

They drew their knife from the holster strapped to their belt, eyes fixed on the barely-visible silhouette of the rabbit, mere feet away. With a clammy grasp on the blade and toes dug into the mud below, they lunged at the rabbit. The animal, sharper than the would-be predator, had anticipated the attack long before its execution. It skittered away, skirting between the foliage, leaving the knife piercing only its afterimage. In the hunter's credit, they recovered quickly, but to no avail. The rabbit had escaped the reach of the lamplight.

_Shit!_

Puppy would be forgiving, but the hunter themself less so.

The figure in question is Aspen. They've lived in these woods for a decade, more or less-- they did not care to keep a precise record. They've gotten by through the years, but hunting has always caused some difficulty. There were other options, certainly. Puppy's kills were usually more than enough for them, and Aspen was happy to supplement their resources with periodic visits to nearby gas stations and convenience stores. In fact, Aspen took pride in these visits, as they proved their own competency, not with a knife, but with a bobby pin. But they still felt badly for their reliance on Puppy, and had been trying-- with little success-- to surprise him with a kill of their own.

After sulkily brushing the dirt from their jeans, Aspen slid the knife back into its holster. It had already gotten dirty and slightly dulled, despite its uselessness (or, perhaps, the uselessness of its owner.) Two turns and a squint of the eyes revealed a small glint in the distance, not dissimilar to the light of the lamp. It shone every night, lit by either of the two forest-dwellers, to guide the other back home. Easier said than done, of course, given the complete lack of paths or clearings. Staring down at the ground illuminated by the lamp, Aspen, still displeased about the loss of their prey, followed the light, keeping their own lamp close to the ground. Their boots were much too big, making the simple task of navigating through the woodland a terrible chore. Nonetheless, this area was well-known to them, and Aspen had developed muscle memory of the quickest routes back. With a little time and care, they reached the dwelling without stumbling-- an impressive feat given the issue of their.. well, feet. They maybe would've even been impressed with themself, had they not been thinking about that goddamn rabbit.

The outside of the home was largely destroyed by weather, insects, and general neglect. Save for the lamp at the door, it was apparently abandoned. Originally Puppy's childhood home, the majority of the house was as it existed back then. His own childhood room and his mother's bedroom remained almost untouched, and for the safety of the house's inhabitants and the building itself, these areas were mostly off-limits, except in special circumstances. Oh, and the bathroom. Don't go to the bathroom.

Through the front door was the living room-- an immediate right turn was necessary to leave the room into the kitchen. The floorboards of the room creaked as Aspen tiptoed through it. The creaking was unavoidable when passing through, and obvious enough to alert any occupants of (usually unwelcome) visitors.

The kitchen itself was rather unremarkable. What was important was a thin, poplar door in the far-right corner which led to their actual "home." The door was not actually locked, and Aspen speculated as to the lock's original effectiveness; given the door's flimsy build, it seems a determined intruder would be able to simply break it down. Apparently this was indeed the case, as Puppy had either forgotten his key or simply had trouble with it, and broke the lock a couple of weeks prior. Nonetheless, Aspen was accustomed to carrying their key and kept it with them. Aspen slipped the key into the lock, turned it very harshly, and with a turn and a push of the knob upward, the door gave way-- although it would have regardless. Staring into the darkness, Aspen clutched the rusted handle of their oil lamp and brushed their fingertips against the wall with their free hand. The first step was always the most tentative, but each subsequent step would become easier, as Aspen let their muscle memory take over, executing a series of controlled falls.

The nearest portion of the basement was likely original to the home, evident by the paved walls. Moving further inward, a tunnel had been dug out, about equal to Puppy's height (roughly a foot-and-a-half taller than Aspen) and wide enough for only a single person to pass through. The tunnel diverged at various points, most of which led to dead ends. It would eventually reach a fork, which Aspen took leftward. This path was heavily decorated with what can only be described as hanging prayer beads modified with miscellaneous objects-- polished stones, animal bones, dried flowers, doll parts.

At the end was Aspen and Puppy's shared room. It, likewise, was thoroughly adorned with objects which either of the two had collected during excursions outside. While Puppy had a liking for naturalistic objects, most of Aspen's belongings were salvaged from dumpsters and trash cans. Books were a frequent find in recycling, although neither Aspen nor Puppy could read very proficiently. An antique grandfather clock was centered against the furthest wall, which rang at midnight and midday. Various weapons were secured to the wall on either side of the clock, most worn from frequent usage.

A brass bed frame was located in the upper-right corner. It lacked a mattress, instead supplemented with several layers of scrap fabric. Atop it was Puppy, who had already fallen 'asleep' several hours prior. He did not sleep in the same way humans sleep. His sleeping was more akin to daydreaming. He was semi-conscious during the experience, with his conscious thoughts merging with his subconscious thoughts in a disjointed sequence. 'Sleeping' in this form was not a physical necessity, although it still helped with mental or emotional exhaustion. He 'slept' with a face covering on, but still habitually buried his face into his wrist while 'sleeping.' His legs curled inward, Aspen always believed he looked ill or injured when 'asleep,' but never mentioned it. Puppy seldom felt very comfortable-- they assumed that carried into even his subconscious actions. The thought made Aspen despondent.

"Pup-ee?" Aspen whispered to the mass of fabric. Puppy shifted, eventually lifting his drowsy head, staring with hazy eyes. Aspen had no reason to wake him-- they had just become quite fond of his groggy expression, which could only be seen when he was half-awake. They rubbed his arm while nestling up against his back, heart warmed by his presence.

"Sorry, Puppy. I know. It's late." They scratched behind his ear, before he laid his head back, ambivalently. "Goodnight, Puppydog."

\---

Aspen woke up only when the clock sang its midday song. The darkness of the bunker made it impossible to ascertain the time, but the clock had never lied to them. Aspen had no idea what time it had been when they returned home the previous night-- presumably much later than they should've been out if they managed to sleep until noon. Puppy had already awoken, already donning his hockey mask, threading bones onto twine. Black scarves draped over his head and face, secured in place with the mask, hood of his coat up. Aspen marveled at the surprising dexterity of his massive, gloved hands.

"Good morning, Puppy," they said, stretching dramatically. Puppy stopped, looking up, leering out of the eye holes. "What bones are those, Pup?"

Pup holds up the necklace, reaching Aspen's face. They inspect it, little black eyes darting around. They looked a bit fang-like, but thinner. Aspen guessed they were raccoon ribs, which worked quite well for necklace-making, because of the flattening that occurs on the end. But they weren't an expert on naturalism.

"Raccoon?" Aspen asks.

Puppy holds up both hands, index and middle fingers extended, pushed closely together. He brings them up to his eyes, then swipes his fingers outward. **RACCOON.**

"Raccoon." Aspen repeats. Puppy nods, and continues the necklace-making. "Today I will go to camp. To fish. To hunt!" Puppy gives another lukewarm nod, well aware that Aspen would not be able to do either. Aspen steps very nervously around the cluttered room, only small cracks of the dirt floor visible under the crowded knick-knacks. Like re-tracing the footprints left in the snow, they jumped from dirt space to dirt space. They retrieved a dagger from the wall, strapping it to their thigh. _Femme fatale_.. Aspen imagines being an assassin. The most dangerous hunter in the world, feared for their amazing prowess.

"Okay." They hop across the room once again, this time to the one exit. "Bye-bye, Pup." Aspen waves, completely blank-faced and monotone. Pup looks up at them, now in the doorway. He taps the chin of his mask and waves to them. **GOODBYE.**

*******

Billie was trying to be a little more laid-back. But even she had her limits. She tried to dissuade her negative feelings: _Billie, isn't it possible you're just a bit put-off because you didn't have a plus-one? Yeah, that's probably right. Don't ruin their fun by being grumpy._

In the backseat were two college-aged kids. These two had been very friendly (much too friendly) with each other during this trip. These two lovers were obviously enamored with each other. Billie thought that the long and mostly sleepless drive would at least dampen their enthusiasm. To her disappointment, it seems that the sleep deprivation only heightened their adrenaline, and it certainly showed: Chester, by far the rowdier and more talkative of the two, drowned the car in a laughing fit, and managed to kick the back of Billie's seat in an over-dramatic display of amusement.

 _Or, it's also possible,_ Billie thought, _that everyone actually is just really fucking annoying._

"I wish that I could've at least heard the joke," Billie snickered, a little passive-aggressively. They didn't seem to take the hint.

Their destination was a campsite that had been closed for several decades. A series of murders had been committed, prompting its closure. An attempt was made to reopen the site, only for the killings to continue, and it was subsequently shut down indefinitely. Given some thirty or more years had passed since the murders began, many were skeptical that they would continue through any natural means. But the people who lived near this campsite were not skeptics. Steeped in a culture of superstition, no local dared propose another reopening. This superstition would only be reinforced by the occasional disturbing find in the camp's surrounding areas. Just a couple of weeks prior, a local hunter found a decapitated pig's head was found impaled on a stump.

But the regional culture and taboos would not prevent outsiders from speculating about the cursed site. In recent years, the unnerving history of Camp Crystal Lake would draw the attention of horror fans and all manner of curious onlookers within online communities. If merely recounting the story of the camp was titillating enough to attract the viewership of thousands, if not millions, then surely venturing into those murky waters would be even more sensational. With this in mind, Noel King, an online "influencer," concocted a plan to visit the terrible place. Billie herself was not a public figure, in the realm of social media or elsewhere, but she was involved in a very important aspect of the business. She was a self-taught, freelance video editor who had built a modest, but liveable, part-time job of packaging the content of creators and streamers. Normally, Billie didn't venture so far out her way for her side-gig, but Noel was a personal friend. The two attended the same college, and had become close prior to Noel's rise to prominence.

"I think we're almost there," Billie groaned, feeling a bit like a mother or a babysitter. They passed under an archway, flanked on either side by animalistic totem poles. The paint on said structures had largely faded, but the words "CAMP CRYSTAL LAKE" remained visible in dulled navy on the arch.

"Oh! Quaint," Noel piped up. "Perhaps we should get a shot of us under it?"

"We can come back this way later," Billie quickly retorted, ready to settle in for the night. Dusk was rapidly approaching. Reddish-orange sunbeams flickered through the wooded vegetation, draping calm over Billie as it came and went. The paved road had ended, giving way to dirt and gravel curves. Around a final, sharp bend, a lake materialized, its surface shimmering like warm stained glass. The tires ground to a halt, and with their deceleration, Billie exhaled slowly. Her fingers released slightly from the steering wheel, the tips sliding down its scaly covering.

"Jesus! Finally!" Chester's voice reminded her that this journey was far from over. The doors behind Billie popped open as the two filed outside, their voices becoming muffled as their doors slammed shut again. Billie, taking one final breath, exited as well.

"Such a beautiful sunset!" Noel faced the lake, her hands pressed against her chest. Noel was not so obnoxious as Chester. Billie thought it a shame that the two were always together now, as Noel was wonderful on her own. But as is, she enabled Chester's irritating behavior. Billie could not help but think what a pretty girl she really was, the setting sun imparting upon her a tangerine glow.

"I've seen better," Chester said, detached from the natural setting. "I'm more interested in what those cabins have got for us." Some five-hundred yards or so from the car were a collection of four cabins. In the center of the cabins was an unusually tall totem pole, not unlike those at the campsite's entrance. At the tip was the image of an eagle, its wings splayed, pointing directly east and west. Billie mulled over its significance, wondering from how far it might be visible. "Come on, I'm checkin' 'em out." Chester waved his hand over.

"You can check 'em out on your own," Billie sneered.

"Fuck that! Like hell I'm goin' in alone!" His stance widened as he placed his hands on his hips. His nose scrunched up like an angry dog, but he couldn't hold back his grin, knowing he would get his way with Noel. Upon seeing her boyfriend leaving her behind, Noel began after him.

"You don't have to go if you don't want to," Billie told her softly. Noel was clearly even more torn by this comment, eager to please but seemingly unable to do so. She looked at her boyfriend, sauntering into the untrimmed grass of the campsite. She looks back to Billie, face painted with apology.

"I'm sorry.." after a brief moment of hesitation, Noel started after him again.

Billie could barely contain her scorn. She could feel it simmering deep in the pit of her stomach, ready to boil over at any moment, spewing poisonous bubbles all over that assclown. She couldn't understand what such a woman would want with such a nasty man. She wondered if she was just bitter-- it was a possibility. Maybe it was a combination of many factors: the bitterness, the stress, the exhaustion. But she was not about to make peace with that asshat just yet. She instead peered over the lake, visually surveying the surrounding areas.

Billie's eyes studied the landscape, looking for a good place to start filming. The lake itself seemed to be a place of particular fascination within the camp's lore. Around the time that legends of the camp's damned nature began to surface, a young boy drowned there. The characteristics of the boy himself were conducive to the formation of such myths: he had both physical deformities and mental illnesses, which made him unsettling to the intolerant. In part because of these disabilities, the boy was cruelly bullied-- with rumors that his death was the fault of several of his bullies. A compelling story, but Billie doubted its legitimacy.

She approached the shore, its foamy, dark-blue waves lightly enfolding the silty sand. Very near to her starting point was a pier, which appeared sturdier than its age might suggest. In fact, it was almost suspiciously well-maintained, as if recently repaired. Billie thought it might be a suitable area for getting footage, although probably only in the morning, to avoid excessive glare. Although-- would the audience be suspicious of such a proper-looking dock? After all, the legends of Camp Crystal Lake painted it as a forsaken hellscape, not a picturesque countryside.

"A bit odd, huh?" Billie whispered aloud. Feeling a little more reckless than usual, she stepped one foot onto the pier. It creaked slightly as she set her full weight into the boards, but it remained solid. She steadily brought the other foot aboard, which accommodated her without complaint. She moseyed up to the terminus, gazing over the edge and into the water. It appeared far less scenic up close, its brackish water reflecting her sharp face back at her. After a few short moments of gazing into herself, a white hand sharply pierced through the visage of her reflection, forcefully gripping the dock, pulling up a wiry black head. It gasped and shook, water spraying every which way, including onto Billie.

"Ah--!" with no time to process what had happened, she took several steps backward. Billie, understandably spooked by a hand manifesting and grasping at her, began to shake as she pointlessly attempted to wipe the water off of herself. She locked eyes with the swamp creature, both of whose hands clutched the dock, with an intense stare and constricted pupils. The creature lifted up slightly, mouth ajar and exposing their yellowed teeth and a wide diastema.

" _Hello!"_ the inflection of the being's voice conveyed an air of carefree friendliness, but was lacking a smile, and maintained an assertive gaze. Pulling themself up one more time, they were able to successfully mount the dock. Standing up awkwardly, pigeon-toed and knock-kneed, they began wringing the water out of their drenched tank top. They very hastily alternated their gaze between their wet clothes and the trespasser. Billie looked upon this petite marshland monster, flabbergasted.

"What are you _doing here_?" she managed to sputter.

The creature looked back at her, almost appearing offended. "What are _you_ doing here?" The two remained locked in an undeclared staring contest, silently waiting for the other to falter.

"I thought this place was abandoned," Billie reluctantly broke the face-off when it became clear Aspen was not going to let up.

"Oh. It is! Well.. sort-of. Kind-of. Nobody here. Except for me. Me and Puppy. Pup-ee." The creature had finished with their tank top and moved on to squeezing the water from their boxer shorts. Billie's eyes followed their hands downward, until they met a holster strapped to their thigh.

"What were you doing in there?" she snapped. Her hands grasped at the hem of her shirt, now very tense at the sight of the holster.

"In where?"

" _The water!"_

"Oh! Hunting. A turtle. I thought, "Perfect! A turtle!" Slow thing. I'm faster than a turtle. Yes, that's what I thought. I can catch a turtle. Finally! But it was too much. Too fast, I mean. It swims, better than me. Wiley bastard! It got away. No turtle, not tonight."

 _What the fuck?_ Billie was at a loss for words. No interaction in her life had prepared her for such an encounter. How does one respond to such a thing, in such a circumstance? Arley was confused as well, but apparently not as threatened. Straightening his back and clearing his throat, he took a few cautious steps forward.

"Who are you?" she asked, perhaps more confrontational than was necessary. "I'm Billie."

"Bill-ee.." The creature repeated with downcast eyes. "I'm Aspen. Az-pin."

"Well.. hello, Aspen."

"Yes. Nice to meet Bill-ee." Aspen's eyes remained fixed at some unclear point downward when talking, a stark contrast to the unrelenting eye contact when they were silent. Their eyes trailed down the pier and back to Billie, staring expectantly.

Aspen moved forward, until just a little more than an arms-length away. At this proximity to each other, Billie was able to see just how dramatically short the lake creature was. Billie was not exceptionally tall: just above average for an American woman. But the lake spirit looked nearly childlike in comparison. Their tiny size helped put Billie somewhat at ease, as she realized this thing was probably not a threat. Up close, she realized that Aspen was not so much a monster, but rather a disheveled teenager. Despite their hair being freshly waterlogged, it stuck out in piecey, unmanageable clumps. Billie had to suppress a smirk as she thought that Aspen resembled something pulled from a shower drain. She felt a bit bad for the thought.

Even though they were probably not immediately dangerous, Billie still didn't understand why this person was here. They said they, and their dog, were the only ones who lived here. Billie didn't think this teenager was the legendary Crystal Lake killer, but even so.. They seemed.. off, somehow. Like they might've been under the influence of some type of drug, or had some sort of mental incapacity. It was a little worrisome that a relatively weak-looking teenager with a possible mental impairment would be wandering around this abandoned campsite, alone. 

"Are, uh.. are you okay? Do you need a ride home, or somethin'?" Billie placed a hand on their shoulder, trying to be a bit kinder.

"Ack! No!" They immediately recoiled from her touch. Billie likewise drew back, looking a bit apologetic.

"Err, sorry," she said. "That was a little rash."

"No, not rash. I have no rash," Aspen said, frightened and fidgeting. "I know the way. Back home, I mean. Yes." Aspen pushed past her. "I know the way. I made paths. I know where to step. I know the way. Yes." They nodded assuredly. "I have to get home. To Puppy. Pup-ee. Goodbye, Bill-ee. Good-bye!" They looked back one final time, with a foreboding glare, "Stay inside." Their face then reset, and they departed on bare feet, clothes still soggy and dripping. 

_Truly, what the fuck?_


	2. Chapter 2

Within the largest of the four cabins, the three outsiders congregated. In the center of the group was Billie's glass bowl and grinder. Billie and Chester smoked, but Noel did not. She was very straight-laced: at twenty years old, she didn't even drink alcohol. Even if she didn't have a personal code against drug use, she was much too on edge right now.

"Could somebody really have been living here this whole time?" she wondered. Chester blew smoke towards her. Noel coughed, moreso to convey her disdain than out of genuine irritation.

"It was probably just some kid from a nearby town," Chester remarked. He genuinely meant to alleviate her fears, but he probably seemed dismissive. "and it sounds like they weren't too bright, either. Is it really worth freaking out about? At worst, it was some squatter taking advantage of the free shelter," he added with contempt. "Probably not stupid. Probably shooting up."

"It does all seem a little weird, though, right?" Billie couldn't shake the ominous feeling that Aspen had given her. "I think it's best to stay on the safe side. Just in case."

Noel studied Billie closely. Her eyes narrowed. "Answer me honestly: does Aspen really exist?"

"Yeah, of course!" Billie seemed hurt by the accusation. "I'm tellin' you, that's just how it happened." Billie couldn't deny it was odd, but it was the truth. 

Chester caught on quickly to his girlfriend's allusion. "I see, I see. So it's just a coincidence that the girl who won't be on camera is the only one who saw the creepy swamp spirit? I'll be honest, I wouldn't expect these kinds of.. shenanigans, from you. "

"I wouldn't lie about something like this." Billie retorted. "And, you're exactly right: I have no sense of humor." She added dryly.

"Please, be honest. Did you just want to scare us?" Noel asked again. Her earnest eyes were almost too much for Billie to bear.

"Whatever," Billie had resigned. "Look, I don't really care if you think I'm a liar. Let's all just stay inside for tonight, alright? I won't bother tomorrow."

"Yeah, yeah," Chester yawned. "I wasn't planning on going out anyway. I'm beat." He stood, stretching somewhat theatrically. "Noel, you ready to hit the hay or what?"

Noel looked reluctant to drop the subject so easily, but Billie was clearly ready to.

"Great!" Chester exclaimed. "Then, if you wouldn't mind, Billie?" He stuck out her tongue and winked. The implication was obvious. Of course: they were adults in a romantic relationship, so they had sex. Except, they didn't. Noel had evaded Chester's advances since the beginning. Billie had heard about the issue, but because she didn't understand Noel's moral reservations against premarital sex, and because Billie saw zero appeal in Chester at all, she wasn't able to help her much with the issue. Chester apparently believes that Noel's moral beliefs are not the issue-- but rather, they simply haven't found the right time or place for her.

"Yeah, sure." Billie stated cooly. "I'll take the cabin next door, then." Their current location was the cabin in the northwest corner of the camp. With the couple taking one cabin, Billie could take any of the other three. That said, Billie realized that she was likely the only one of the three who hadn't seen the cabin interiors, which meant that the best cabin was likely the one that she was currently in. But she was too exhausted to do a last-minute inspection of them, and she probably wouldn't have said anything even if she had looked at all of them.

"What?! No!" Noel snapped in an uncharacteristically hostile tone. Billie and Chester were both taken aback by the outburst. "If there's some.. Some _weirdo_ skulking around out there, wouldn't it be safer if we were all together?"

"Oh, well.. I don't think Aspen was dangerous per se.. They were barely even five feet tall," Billie tried to reassure her.

"They _threatened_ us, Billie!"

"I don't know if it was supposed to be a threat.." Billie had a difficult time believing that such a small creature would be able to do any significant damage, particularly considering they could not even successfully catch a turtle. But both Noel and Chester were looking upon her with suspicion. They still didn't know whether to believe that Aspen existed in the first place, and Billie's protestations only made her story all the more questionable. "Stay inside" would certainly be a convenient commandment for a swamp spirit to make should Billie want to sneak away to commit some nefarious acts-- perhaps setting up some terrible stunt to scare the two. Billie wanted to tell them that if she really wanted to freak them out, they would've concocted a more intimidating antagonist. But she didn't think it'd be of much use to keep arguing, and she just wanted to get to sleep. She really didn't care where she slept. 

"Oh.. alright." Billie accepts her proposal. Chester was clearly not happy with this change in arrangements.

"Billie is a big girl.. I'm sure she can take care of herself," he insists. "And I'm sure that she would want some privacy," he adds with a tinge of disdain.

"No! It's not safe. I won't allow it." Noel was adamant. It was useless to argue at this point. Noel was not infrequently stereotyped as being demure, submissive, and frankly, a bit of a pushover. But she was very serious about issues regarding safety and security. Chester accepted tonight was not the night.

Noel insisted their current location was the safest option, which was fine with both of her companions. The interiors were not as dirty as Billie had first anticipated, although her expectations were set very low. Chester volunteered to sleep nearest to the door, likely in part the effect of his benevolent chauvinism. Noel did not mind as much as Billie, but neither openly objected to the matter. Noel established a no-light rule, including the light of phones, until dawn. Chester broke this rule twice, the first time going unmentioned, the second time, Noel whisper-screamed at him to turn it off. 

Billie didn't know Chester particularly well. She didn't know him at all prior to his relationship with Noel. And she may have had preconceived notions about his character before even meeting him, based on the limited information that she was given. A business major from a relatively well-to-do family, he and Noel apparently met at the show of a local emo band. Neither of the lovebirds looked like they would be part of that scene, which maybe is why they were drawn to each other. Other than his music tastes, however, Chester struck Billie as a relatively 'typical guy.' He did track and field in high school, liked traveling internationally, and smoked a little too much weed. Nothing wrong with any of that, and nothing necessarily wrong with being a 'typical guy.' As far as 'typical guys' go, there were much bigger assholes than Chester. But not being a colossal jackass seemed such a low bar, especially for a girl like Noel. Billie would never understand why some of the most stunning women had such subzero standards.

Billie felt that, more than anything, she disliked Chester not because of his callousness itself, but rather, because his callousness was a reminder of her own malice. Billie was much more subtle than him: being explicitly rude to others could very easily have negative consequences for her. It was safer, and sometimes more effective, to be indirect. To make snide remarks which could be variably interpreted. In the worst case, it gives you a way out. It leaves the victim wondering if they were the one being sensitive, if they were misunderstanding, if they were in the wrong. It puts them on their toes. They're the one of the defensive, the one questioning, while Billie can simply move on and worry about crossing the bridge of dispute if and when it comes to that. Until then, she can revel in her target's uncertain humiliation, and her own subsequent elevation.

But Chester lacked the subtlety that Billie embodied. He had all of the charm of a flea-ridden feral cat and the delicacy of a jackhammer. He had no issue aggressing against others for his own benefit nor asserting his dominance over those he viewed as inferior. He would even target those who were a perceived threat to his superiority: those more masculine or capable than himself. In short, he was overtly and obviously toxic. That made him detestable to many, but in a way, Billie coveted his malevolence. At least in his plainness, he could also vent his anger and frustrations, to a certain degree. Billie could not, because she would not risk visibility. But it also hurt her to see the undisguised and immediate effects of his open attitudes, which were, in essence, the same as her own implicit, unjustified spitefulness. It was a reminder of the parts of herself that she hated.

The thoughts gave Billie a feeling so complicated. She looked over at Chester, who appeared to already be asleep. He looked rather peaceful, laying there so motionlessly. She really didn't like him. Some of those feelings were justified. Some of them were irrational. She wanted to change, and she wanted to be better. His presence was a reminder of that, but it also made it harder. Change is never easy. Especially when you're constantly having to fight against your instincts. _Especially_ when you had someone right there, echoing your worst impulses. She just hoped she'd be rid of him soon.

***

Aspen could hardly contain their own excitement. Visitors to Camp Crystal Lake were rare. Aspen was certain there was at least one of them, although the car they drove could have carried more. They replayed the interaction from this evening over and over in their mind. Placing the pieces of the puzzle back in place, they try to remember every minuscule detail of their own image in addition to Billie's-- an unrealistic task, and one which shifted as Aspen doubted their own memory of the conversation. _Did I do okay? I wasn't too weird, was I?_ They thought about their word choice, their body language. Did they remember to make eye contact? _Yes, of course I did. I remember their faces. I did good. I'm sure it's fine. Right?_ They exhaled deeply, pausing scrutiny of their performance for the time being. How long had it been since they'd talked to another person, other than Puppy?

Aspen loved Puppy. They would agree with this statement without a doubt. And to be entirely fair to him, the communication between the two had become exponentially better over time. You see, Puppy was mute. It wasn't entirely clear as to why or how he had no ability to speak; that is, if his disability was the result of a physical deficiency or if the effect was psychosomatic in nature. Either way, Aspen had found some time ago that Puppy did not respond well to stressful situations. The pressure of being expected to do something which he, at the very least, felt he was physically incapable of achieving, was enough to make him exceedingly upset at best, and outright deranged at worst. They abandoned the goal of teaching Puppy to speak several years ago, for both of their sakes. But they were determined to find some means of communication with him. One of the books which Aspen managed to steal from a local thrift store was a dictionary for American sign language. Everyday, Aspen taught Puppy a new word so that he slowly builds a repertoire of signals to communicate with. It is difficult to express complex ideas with single, disjointed words, but it was certainly better than the complete lack of communication which defined the first few years of cohabitation.

Puppy watched Aspen with anticipation. They had been very quiet since coming home, but somehow bubblier and bouncier than usual. Aspen could hardly stop smiling. He liked when they smiled-- particularly when he could see the gap between their front teeth. Aspen could feel Puppy's stare. Sure enough, his eyes were fixed on them, watching as they broke down the pieces of a trashed doll. Aspen kept smiling, but tilted their head sideways. Puppy placed both index fingers on the mouth region of the featureless mask, and moved his fingers up and outward. **SMILE.**

"Am smiling, Puppydog!" Aspen giggles, rolling their eyes a little.

He clenches a fist and brings it to his temple. The pinky is brought up, and with the hand position static, the middle three fingers flapped twice. **WHY?**

"You'll see, Puppydog." Aspen wanted so badly to gush about their encounter. Aspen had learned that Puppy would eventually sniff out any intruders, no matter how much they tried to keep it a secret. But they wanted a bit more time. Just a little bit. Puppy found their silence more than a bit suspect, but would not (and, to a certain extent, could not) press the issue further. Aspen could feel his dissatisfaction, but could offer nothing to comfort him, save for a gentle skritch behind his ear. He leans into, but only slightly, looking a bit frustrated.

He huffs, pulling away. He digs through some of the objects dispersed across the room. The items within were only vaguely organized in terms of purpose and to whom it belonged, although cleaning was seldom done in the tunnels, meaning things quickly became disorganized and often stayed in the incorrect spot for a long while. Clawing through the debris, he finds his objective: a tiny cardboard box, filled with about a dozen matches.

"Pup?" Aspen is disheartened once they realize that he was preparing to leave. "Where are you going? It is late!" It wasn't like it was unusual for Pup to leave at late hours, but Aspen still despised it when they were in for the night. Upon reaching the 'door,' Pup turns to them, both hands showing middle and index fingers and thumbs, shaping guns on his hands. He tilts them diagonal, relative to his body. **HUNT.** Puppy had a feeling there was something out there. He disappeared into the burrows, towards the remnants of the house, gently pushing aside the prayer beads and gauze strips that lined the ceilings of the underpasses.

Aspen could not stop him from leaving. They knew better than to try. It was clear that he understood language, even if he could not speak himself. He was simply an incredibly stubborn animal, unable to be persuaded or dissuaded. Obstinate, predictable, and an extremely efficient hunter. Aspen could only hope that their warning was heeded.

It was already well past dusk. Puppy poked his snout outside the front door. The air smelled different somehow. Like salted earth. He lit the candle at the door. Its light shone dimly against the decaying wooden slats of the exterior walls. The unpleasant smell of the lit match wafted through the nighttime breeze. He hoped the light would be a sufficient guide tonight. It would have to be.

***

White light had begun filling up the inside of the cabin. Billie was normally far from an early bird, but she had trouble sleeping in unfamiliar places. She batted her eyelids, adjusting to the sun's greeting through the windows. She checked her phone: 5:53 AM. Knowing that only made her feel more tired, but it would be impossible to fall back asleep in the condition of the cabin. Sure enough, Chester and Noel were still very much alive, still sleeping soundly, little snores being issued by one of them. Billie was relieved, but felt a little stupid for taking Aspen's words so seriously.

Outside, the air was unexpectedly crisp. A thin layer of fog was visible across the lake. Billie could feel the unkempt grass brushing against her ankles, gifting her droplets of dew through her pantyhose. The camp was devoid of any of the anticipated insect or bird noises. The threatening silence was an audible reminder of Aspen's words. _Could they have meant to stay inside indefinitely?.. No, that would be ridiculous. Of course not._ Billie tried her best to shake off the omen-- a task easier said than done, given it hung conspicuously in the air.

Summoning her courage, she took to the task of inspecting the remaining areas of the camp. The cabin directly south of her was, judging from the outside, the most rundown of the bunch. The majority of the veranda had collapsed, potentially due to infestation or water damage. The wreckage was severely discolored, as was the lowermost portion of the door, and a vile odor emanated from the entrance. A sizable portion of debris blocked the front door, and would need to be cleared to enter. Apparently, this cabin had been unexplored by the other two, maybe for convenience's sake. The door's upper portion was marked with a very peculiar type of graffiti:

Certainly unusual. It appeared to be written with some type of paint, although it was probably done quite some time ago, having faded to be near-imperceptible. Although the graffiti probably wouldn't show up well in video, Billie thought it would be worth checking out the inside, to see if it would be memorable enough for filming. Unfortunately, the debris was too cumbersome to move on her own. She would have to wait for the others. 

East of the decaying remains of the southeast shack was a counselor cabin. It was comparatively smaller than the others, and appeared slightly more agreeable than the others. It seemed a more well-built establishment, rather than a building that was actively maintained since its abandonment. Indeed, one of the support beams on this cabin's veranda was spray-painted with the words "LSD PALACE." Charming. Rather than the barrack-style layout of the previous cabins, this one appeared more conducive to communal engagement. Billie assumed it was probably either the quarters for counselors, or it was general recreational building. Despite its relative lack of wear on the outside, the interiors indicated more damage from its disorderly inhabitants. In particular Billie noticed a hole in the one of the walls, positioned too low to have been purposefully made by a fist. Billie couldn't help but chuckle, imagining some drunk college student falling backwards, puncturing the wall, and the ensuing chaos that would erupt to hide the incident from their superiors.

She enters the room on the other side of the hole. Inside is a bunk bed, two desks, and two sizable closets. Obviously, this was a bedroom for two counselors. Otherwise, it was rather unremarkable, although the once-white sheets on the beds had become quite strained with what looked like an interesting variety of different fluids. She poked her head into each closet, but was disappointed to find them empty, save for cobwebs. When she turned around, she saw something unexpected. A few feet above the hole in the wall was another tag of graffiti, almost twice as large as the previously-found tag. In fact, it took up a fair portion of the wall.

It was different, but no less unusual. It also appeared to be done in some type of darkly-colored paint (as opposed to the spraypaint tags seen outside) although this one was considerably less faded, presumably because it was not exposed to the elements. Billie wondered if it was created by the same artist, or if people in this town just had a penchant for cryptic, unnerving symbolism. 

Billie exited the final cabin. The sky was brightening further, and the fog dissipating somewhat. The wet spots on her ankles were now almost dry. She looked west, to the lake, its slightly depressed shore obscured by the tall grass around her. Getting to the shore would be tedious. In retrospect, she should've chosen different shoes for this trip, but it was too late for that now. She paced slowly and carefully towards it, toe-first, before setting the base and heel into a full step. The toes on her left foot dug into a squishy mass-- mud, presumably. Pressing down the rest of her shoe, she felt a pulpy resistance, coinciding with a noise like wringing a sponge. She felt her ankle moisten again, this time with hot liquid.

Billie managed to salvage a piece of driftwood from the shore. It was itself a rather disgusting object to be touching with bare hands, but she would deal with it given the circumstances. Poking the branch into the spot where she had stepped, she thrust the stick inward, evoking another _splitch!_ sound. She cautiously lifted it upward, despite its surprising weight. At the end of the driftwood was the eviscerated corpse of a rabbit. A single incision extended down the entire length of the animal's underside, from just beneath the chin to between the hindlegs.

Billie recalled something she had learned back in high school. Her biology teacher had told the class that organs are very compact-- cutting open a normal body would not cause the viscera to spill out like you see in the movies. And yet, the innards of the rabbit were almost entirely exposed, overflowing and dangling out from its belly. Billie was nauseated by the thought that someone had not only killed the defenseless animal, but had intentionally disemboweled it.

She set the rabbit's remains on the outermost edge of the shore, just beside the start of the grass. What should she do with it? Her immediate instinct was to bury the poor creature, to at least respect the life it had. Of course, this would also mean vanishing it, which was certainly a desirable outcome given the brutal and revolting nature of its image. But perhaps this is too significant to hide from the others, and they surely wouldn't believe it without tangible proof, given they did not accept the existence of Aspen yesterday. She carefully laid the driftwood over the rabbit's body, in part to hide it from predators, and in part to return a modicum of dignity to its being.

She considered what to do. Wake the sleeping couple? Was it serious enough to warrant that? She could only imagine the reactions, especially first thing in the morning. Does she pretend she hadn't seen it? It might bring some suspicion off of her, but would she be suspected anyway? After all, she _was_ awake before the other two, and she had no way to know if her departure from the cabin had been felt by the others.

While weighing the possibilities, she realizes perhaps the most shocking detail of the rabbit corpse. She had been so concerned with her own relation to it that she had neglected to process an obvious reality: that this rabbit had been butchered very recently. The heat of its blood still lingered on her ankle, returning sickness to her gut. Did that mean.. that the butcher was still nearby?

Billie froze. She became very aware of her own breath. She listened intently, but failed to hear anything other than her own respiration. Was she being loud? Was her breathing so dramatic? Or was she imagining it? Is it just because of the deafening silence of her surroundings? Why was this campsite so silent, anyways? Shouldn't a site reclaimed by nature have plenty of noises?

_You don't belong here._

She thought that, but she didn't. She heard it, but it was not audible. It was her own voice, but she had not said it.

"Bill-ee?" That one was not her imagination. The voice echoed slightly, and sounded misty. Could fog muffle sounds? Does fog do that?

It didn't matter. Billie tried to stop her fear for the time being, but the physiological symptoms remained. The cold sweat on her forehead recalled the disturbing thoughts. She wiped it off as she called out; clearly, it was Aspen.

"Aspen? Where are you?" she could hear her own voice shaking. Should she be afraid of Aspen? They weren't physically scary. But just about everything else about them was... Was that a mean thing to say? Was she being a bigot?

Billie sees an unkempt head of black hair appear over the ridge of the shoreline. The face is stony, but the nose wiggles slightly as the eyes settle, not on Billie, but in her general direction.

"Bill-ee." Aspen is deadpan but self-assured. The peculiar sight, combined with Billie's extremely unnerved disposition, forces a laugh out of her, much to Aspen's surprise and dismay. "Bill-ee? You okay? Bill-ee?" Aspen no longer sounded self-assured, and began looking self-conscious.

"It's alright," Billie tried to stifle her amusement with the spirit. "Come here." Aspen slid down the embankment with ease, despite wearing what looked like heavily-worn cloth slippers. They must have performed the action quite regularly. Their dress varied substantially from yesterday-- the evening prior, they wore what amounted to little more than underwear: a tank top and boxer shorts. Today, they were covered near head-to-toe in a dramatically-oversized button-up and a fraying, ankle-length skirt, appearing to be fashioned from excess scraps of fabric. They really did look like a street urchin. And their current presence seemed to back up yesterday's claim that they do live somewhere in the general area. 

Billie shifts her eyes to the barely-covered rabbit a few yards away. Her mood sours again as she considers it in the context of Aspen. Given the rabbit's.. erm.. freshness, and Aspen's apparent seeming proximity to it at the time of its death, there is a possibility that they were responsible. That said, Aspen's voluminous clothing and near-destroyed slippers did not seem useful for hunting a small, quick creature like a rabbit. But she doesn't know who else it could've been. Billie nods over to the piece of driftwood. Aspen doesn't react as if they understood the motion, but nonetheless follows as she approaches it. Billie felt her hands were already contaminated by various unclean sources, but she didn't really want to worsen it. She kicks the driftwood over, exposing the bloody bunny below.

"Aspen. Did you do this?" Aspen's eyes grew wide as their face twisted into a grimace.

"Gah! Son-of-a-bitch!" Their robotic tone when pronouncing the expletive would've made Billie laugh in nearly any other situation. They turned to Billie with accusatory eyes. "My rabbit! The loath-some bas-tard! I have hunted it. Yes. Tracked it. Never caught it. Never got it... You killed it, Bill-ee?"

"No, Aspen. That's why I was asking you."

"Oh."

"You were hunting yesterday, right? I don't think anybody at our camp went out last night. But I found it this morning. Do you know where it came from?"

Aspen looked away, blank-faced. With some persons with disabilities, you could see the gears turning in their mind, grinding and turning to produce an answer. For these folks, it took a bit more time and work to churn out the correct response. Such was not the case with Aspen. Instead, their mind was not so much a mechanism as a jigsaw puzzle. They had all of the pieces, all of the words, laid out before them, and a sense of what they should come together to create. But the pieces were mixed up, confused. Aspen knew the concepts they wished to express almost immediately-- the trouble was not retrieving the information, it was piecing it all together into some intelligible form.

Still looking at the ground, Aspen muttered, "Dog. Puppydog killed it. Rrrrripped its guts out! Rodents are good practice. Yes. Good practice for a good hunter."

Billie thought Aspen seemed suspicious, but everything they did was so unnatural and awkward that she was unsure of how to differentiate between truth and lies. She did recall Aspen mentioning that they lived with a "Puppy" at home, and Billie thought it certainly possible for a dog to kill a rabbit, though she had never had one. Perhaps not a puppy in the strictest sense: this was likely just a nickname. And in an ostensibly uninhabited area, it wasn't unreasonable for a dog to be allowed to roam free. Still, it seemed off, somehow.

"Your puppy did this?"

"My Puppy."

"Quite a strong puppy you have."

"Yes. The strongest." Aspen spoke solemnly.

Billie had no choice but to accept this explanation in the absence of all others. Billie sighed, imagining the reactions of her companions. But.. if it was only the work of a dog, then it probably wasn't much to be worried about. At least, not worried enough to make a scene of it. Noel was a bit jumpy, however. Maybe it would be best to get rid of it.

"Hey, uh.." Billie tried to find the right words. She didn't want to pressure Aspen into doing something so sickening, but she also _really_ didn't want to do it herself. She struggled to find the right balance. "If.. you don't mind.. Would you have some use.. for this rabbit?"

Aspen tipped their head to one side, considering the proposition. They didn't really have any use for it, but someone else might.

"Bones...Puppy likes bones."

"That's.. that's great," Billie was probably not direct enough in her question, as Aspen clearly didn't grasp that they were being asked a favor. "Maybe you could take this bunny back to your dog, then?"

Aspen looked down. Puppy was probably aware that there was an outsider in the camp. Once he figured that out, he probably left the rabbit on purpose, to serve as a warning to leave. The tactic of leaving animal remains-- often mutilated ones-- was fairly effective in scaring off intruders. Of course, Puppy didn't mind the act killing. He was good at it. But paradoxically, sometimes it attracted _more_ attention, from the police, from people looking for lost loved ones, from idiot explorers. Puppy wanted to be left alone.

"Um.. are you sure, Bill-ee?" Aspen seemed doubtful that this was the correct course of action.

"I am _very_ sure."

Aspen frowned, feeling that Billie was not taking this threat seriously _._ To Billie's horror, Aspen scooped up the rabbit corpse with both arms, relatively unruffled. The animal's fluids visibly leaked onto their shirt as they hugged it tightly against their chest. "Okay, Bill-ee."

"T-thanks.."

Aspen figured the woman would be dead either way. 


	3. Chapter 3

Aspen brought the rabbit back home. The body had lost most of its warmth, and it did not bleed unless pressure was put on it. It had probably been a couple of hours since it was killed. Maybe they had just missed Puppy when he was returning home from his hunt. Aspen had been hunting this poor creature, but now that it actually died, they just felt bad for it. Maybe they were purposefully being a bad hunter, so that they wouldn't have to bear the responsibility of taking a life. They knew that was no frivolous matter.

The morning light had now fully bloomed, creeping inside the (mostly) abandoned home. Sure enough, upon pushing open the front door, Aspen sees Puppy sitting on his knees in the main room of the old house. He turned back to them briefly, only to confirm that it was them, before returning to his work. He had removed his jacket and scarf, as well as any adornments from his other clothes that might have gotten in the way. From behind, Aspen could see him, unhooded for the first time in a little while. His hair formed shoulder-length, auburn-colored clumps, matted from being unwashed for some time.

"Pup needs hairbrush." They teased him slightly as they approached. He didn't respond, but Aspen wasn't really expecting him to. He was definitely in the zone. Looking over his shoulder, there was a beige-colored sheet of linen: his canvas. On either side were his usual tools: brushes of variable sizes and sharpened wooden stakes, various unmatching glasses, and a bottle of turpentine. A small jar held thick, dark red liquid: the paint. Aspen squeezed the rabbit against their chest, only a couple meager drops trickling out. They watched their Puppy meticulously wet his brush in the blood, drag it across the canvas, and wash it clean with turpentine.

"Puppy cleans brushes better than his hair." Aspen continues to tease him, determined to get some acknowledgement. This time, they ruffle his hair the best they can with the straps of his mask holding the tufts in place. Sure enough, this time he stopped, depositing his brush into the turpentine and peered up at Aspen, giving them a begging look. The shadow of the mask only accentuated the puppy-eye effect.

He crossed his flattened, face-down palms and separated them sharply. He extends only his index finger on one hand, pointing up. With the other hand, he extends the pinky and thumb, then scrapes the pinky against his index finger twice. **DO NOT BULLY.**

 ****"Sorry," Aspen mumbles, smiling vaguely and not looking the least bit sorry. Puppy forgives them nonetheless, as they offer a scratch behind the ear. He silently leans into it like an affectionate kitten. He sees Aspen clutching the rabbit carcass with the free arm, and tilts his head at them.

"Oh.." Aspen pulls back, cradling the rabbit again. "Outsider.. said to take." Puppy holds his stare, but does not respond. He wordlessly returns to his painting. Aspen skips into the kitchen, placing the rabbit into an empty cupboard. There isn't an icebox or anything here, so that was their best bet. Later, Puppy would probably process it the same as any other corpse: removing the easily-harvestable viscera and extraneous parts before boiling the body until the tissues easily separated from the bones. Then they could be used for decorations, tools, and so on.

Aspen returns to Pup, sitting down next to him. They wanted to lean against him, but because he was using his arms, it was better to just sit. Aspen was mesmerized by how unusually adept he was with his hands. With how big he was, he gave the impression that he would be pretty destructive all the time. And that was mostly true. But he was surprisingly dexterous, and had technical artistic skills that Aspen would surely envy if he were anyone else. Depending on his mood and the subject matter, his painting strokes could be excruciatingly precise and calculated, or they could be manic and feverish. It was very similar to the ways he wielded a machete, a knife or any other weapon, and the use of the blood only made it all the more homologous. Thinking of him drawing a blade across healthy, unblemished skin made Aspen's heart beat faster. Watching the paintbrush repeatedly slash the ivory canvas was almost too much to handle. They wanted to avert their focus, fearful that the highly-perceptive Pup might notice their physiological distress.

"Had 'dream' again?"

Pup nodded.

That's typically what these paintings depicted. Aspen was a devout student of oneirology, and likewise tried to teach him about oneiric analysis. But Puppy didn't really 'dream' like a human does, because he doesn't really 'sleep' in the same way. They were more like visions. They could happen at any time, and were more dependent on the thoughts and actions of others rather than Puppy himself. Aspen could not be certain, but because human dreams are often the manifestations of briefly seeing into the realm of the non-existent, they assumed it was the opposite for Puppy: that his 'dreams' were involuntary manifestations of his connections to the human world. Presumably, they were representations of something attempting to add or remove itself to his being.

He and Aspen attempted to unravel their meaning, but they had been rather cryptic lately. On the lower edge of the canvas appeared to be corvid skulls. From them, flowers grew, with leaves that terminated in peacock feathers. The center flower bloomed like a red peony, and organs spilled out from its opened petals. Were they the bird's, the flower's, or someone else's?

Well, it wasn't the scariest thing he'd ever dreamt, but they still didn't know what it meant. Peacock feathers were a pretty unambiguous symbol, but it was unclear what the rest meant in conjunction with it. Corvids.. death? Yes, Puppy surely did have a lot of connection to death.

He picked up the smallest of the stakes, dipping only the very tip into the blood. He made a single dot on the canvas before repeating the process. This was stipple-shading, where collections of dots would create a shading effect. It would be a mind-numbing activity to watch, had Aspen not drifted back into their own daydreaming as he continuously pricked the canvas with the spike. The stakes were sharpened so very well that Aspen imagined they could probably cause similar pinpricks to form if they were pressed against their own flesh. Aspen now felt like they were the one being teased, although it was, without a doubt, unintentional.

Lost in their thoughts, Aspen exhaled heavily, prompting Puppy to turn to them, head cocked. He rotated his flattened hand in front of his stomach, ending with his palm facing up. **UPSET?**

"Uh.. n..no, Pup. Am okay." Aspen bowed their head, hoping their face hadn't flushed red yet. Puppy narrowed his eye at them, clearly catching on that something was 'wrong' with them, but too preoccupied to press the matter.

Aspen continued watching the implicitly sadomasochistic performance for as long as they could bear, fingers running across perfectly parallel scars. 

***

The departure to Crystal Lake seemed to come at an inopportune time for Billie. She had just recently suffered a break-up with her partner, Jamie, only a couple of months prior. The two had been together for a little over a year. Billie had been with girls before Jamie, but this was the first real, serious relationship. The two had even considered renting an apartment together after the summer vacation started. But there was an issue which pervaded their relationship, and it was Billie's fault-- and she knew it.

Billie was never bullied per se. But that didn't mean she didn't feel the prejudices of her peers. In her early teen years, she came out as a lesbian. She thought it would be no big deal: she lived in a fairly liberal city, and in this modern age, descrimination based on sexuality was becoming less and less acceptable. But there were little things. Sometimes, men treated her worse when they discovered she wouldn't want to fuck them. Other times, they tried to convince her that they knew her sexuality better than she did. Making friends with women was hard, as they believed she was predatory. She wasn't taken seriously. She had to fight to be treated like everyone else.

Billie's self-advocacy sometimes worked in achieving respect. But not always. It became frustrating, even devastating, to have to be constantly fighting those above her, just to be given the dignity she deserved. She became tired of fighting losing battles. And as such, she realized that she might be granted respect if she changed targets. It was difficult and dangerous to climb the social ladder on your own. But it was easy to step on those below you to get ahead. It's very strange, she thought. That she would often be denied honor, even when she had had the qualities which were deserving of such: kindness, sharpness, reliability. Instead, she would be given status on the basis of adopting the worst qualities of those who never had to fight a day in their lives.

Jamie came to love Billie because of her sharp mind, her consideration of others, and her willingness to help. Billie was often surprisingly gentle, down-to-earth, and compassionate when they were together. That was the Billie that they both loved. But as they spent more time together, Jamie noticed a disturbing trend. That in the presence of others, Billie became competitive and confrontational. She used her intelligence to suss out the insecurities of others to use against them. She was ruthless when it came to elevating herself and her image. These patterns only intensified over time, and it became a habit whenever Billie was around new people. Jamie told her that she couldn't stand it. That she hated seeing her turn into a different person. Billie wanted to change, but she considered her alternate personality to be a means of protection. She was afraid of dropping it. And Jamie had had enough.

Billie was still recovering from the sting of losing her first love when Noel proposed the idea of traveling to Crystal Lake. Billie initially refused, saying she had no interest whatsoever. But she kept asking, apparently believing that the journey would help Billie come to terms with her breakup. If not, it would at least serve as a nice distraction for a few days. Billie would finally agree, believing that the famously-flaky Noel would either forget about it or back out. But she didn't. And here they are.

When Billie saw Aspen, those feelings of defensiveness returned. Small, slovenly, and seemingly socially stunted, Aspen would have been an easy target. But Billie wanted to change. She wanted to be kind, to become the person that she knew she ought to be. Who she should've been.

"I wanna get some shots on the pier before it gets too late," Billie motions Noel towards the end. It was pretty amazing how attractive Noel managed to look after sleeping in decrepit shack. Her makeup was a bit lighter than usual, but still tidily done. Her hair had been less cooperative, and sat in a simple, but still neat, bun towards her crown. A few curly strands fell to the sides of her face. "We can probably start the video with a shot of you here, looking over the lake." Clearing her throat, Noel straightened her back and flashed a few practice smiles. Billie gave a countdown and began recording.

"Hello, lovelies!" Noel exclaimed her greeting for every video with overstated body language to match it. Noel was a very sweet girl, but her online persona was almost cloyingly so. Billie could almost feel the cavities forming. "Today, I am at~ Camp~ Crystal~ Lake!" an exaggerated hand motion presents the soft waters of the lake. It almost does look too serene to be cursed, but Billie figures it's nothing that editing can't fix. "Oooooh!" Noel makes spooky ghost noises, pretending to shiver with her fists tucked under her chin.

Chester can be heard snorting in the background. She really was such a ridiculously silly girl. But he loved seeing her do these things. She was having a lot of fun. He couldn't stop grinning while watching her, and she looked like an angel in her flowy, white dress against the lake. When Billie looked back upon hearing the snort, she noticed the adoration written all over his face. She thought he could be a real asshole, but he really did love her. Or something like that.

Billie begins to think about Jamie, causing her arms to start feeling weak and the lightness in her chest to sink. She does her best to keep a slight smile, so as not to concern Noel during the capture.

Noel starts to recount the legends associated with the lake. That a deformed boy drowned and now haunts the area. Watching her, Billie thinks this may need a second take, as Noel stumbles over finding the most pleasant, inoffensive terms to describe the boy of legend. Although, maybe it conveys her consideration of others. Billie ponders over it.

"The body of this boy was never found," she declares, sounding atypically grave. "But other bodies have been found since then, some drowned, others having died of very unnatural causes." Noel's innocent demeanor and appearance seem betrayed by the topic at hand. She continues, describing some of the camp's victims and their suspected causes of death. Many of the crimes were never solved, becoming cold cases or being unofficially closed due to the passage of time. "Now," after finishing, she asserts with determination, "I will show you the campsite!" she motions the viewer to 'follow' her as she walks off screen.

"Nice!" Billie praises her as she stops the recording. Noel doesn't look as certain, biting her lip briefly, before remembering she is wearing gloss.

"Were the details of the murders a bit too.. macabre?" she asks, looking a bit worried about ruining her image with the wrong presentation.

"No, no," Billie shrugs it off. "It'd be hard to cover this topic in a sanitized way.."

"I would prefer to not be too.. mature?" she struggles to find the word.

"It'll be fine," Billie tries to reassure her, but admittedly, she knows next to nothing about the way 'influencers' have to present themselves. "I think it's kinda cool, y'know? That juxtaposition between you and the creepy topic."

Noel smiles, unconvinced but trying to take it to heart. It's not exactly what she was going for, but it would have to do for now.

Finding the right place to start recording the campsite was trickier. Billie was frustrated as they trudged around the camp, back and forth, looking for a place which had the right lighting and color balance. And that destroyed cabin definitely needed to be in the background. They settled on a spot, with Noel positioned roughly in the spot between two of the cabins in the near-distance, standing at a diagonal at the camera. She repeated her throat-clearing and smiling ritual before Billie again began the recording.

"This is our campsite~! Can you believe I've been sleeping here?" She makes fun of her own prissiness, but exaggerates the accomplishment by making it seem like a longer trip. "All of these cabins have been abandoned for decades! Think of all the mysteries that could be hidden inside! Hopefully we don't run into any gho--"

"Bill-ee?" the sound of Aspen's voice reverberated near the forest's edge. Noel freezes at the unfamiliar sound, which resembled the disjointed voice of a sick child.

"What the fuck..?" Chester mumbles, clearly a bit on edge as well.

"Jesus fuck," Billie turned off the camera, letting it rest offline on the tripod. "Hold on," she muttered as she paced to the forest. She hated being bothered while working, and Aspen was a little annoying to begin with. _Just chill out.. Calm down.._ She peered around the side of the decaying cabin. She sees something small stumble out of the thick foliage, just a few yards away.

"Oof--" it sounded like a hard tumble. Billie marched over, offering a hand to the oblivious sprite, who stands up on their own, brushing dirt off the skirt. Billie remembers it's probably for the best, the bloodstains a reminder that they cradled a dead rabbit this morning.

"I heard.. voices. Out-siders. Forest told me. You have friends?"

"Yeah. I have friends."

"Friends. Will meet friends?"

Billie paused, looking back. It wasn't really a great time. But Aspen did just do her a favor.. Chester and Noel had already heard the voice. They weren't going to accept "nothing" as an explanation for it. And Aspen wanted to meet them. It seemed there wasn't another option. Maybe meeting Aspen would put them in the right headspace for this type of thing. Billie hadn't made up the pixie-like creature to scare them, but she might as well utilize it now.

"Alright. Let's go." She waved them in the direction, letting them walk ahead. As they stepped out of the vegetation, Billie noticed their feet.

"Aspen, where are your shoes?"

"Gone."

"I--.. yeah. They sure are. Whatever."

Initially, Billie took care to walk behind Aspen, thinking that they might get spooked and leave, or at the very least, become distracted and mosey off. Aspen, however, was clearly uncomfortable with this arrangement, frequently looking over their shoulder to make sure Billie had not left. Apparently, Aspen shared the same worries about Billie. Aspen stopped very suddenly, causing Billie to almost crash into them. Some seconds passed before Aspen turned around to her, bowing their head awkwardly.

"Walk in front. Please." Billie was surprised by the directness of Aspen's request.

"Why's that?"

Aspen bowed even deeper. Their voice, tinged with humiliation, just barely squeaked out, "Don't want you to leave, Bill-ee."

If Aspen's request was surprising, then their justification of it was shocking. Billie could hardly believe that this person, who she had not known for even a full day, was worried that they might be abandoned by her. Billie herself felt a bit ashamed of her suspicion. Aspen, who lived in these woods alone with only their dog for company, likely viewed Billie with much more fondness than she initially realized.

"Yeah, that's fine. You can walk behind me." Billie continued on. The soft pitter-patter of Aspen's feet echoed her own footsteps. Billie couldn't help but chuckle slightly, thinking that their bare feet only made them look more like some strange forest-dwelling creature. Aspen required a fair bit of patience. Billie was never a particularly patient woman by nature, quickly annoyed by unnecessary questions and indirect answers. While she had been trying to accomodate, she began to think that maybe she had not been trying hard enough. When she pushed aside her initial annoyances, she thought that Aspen was actually a bit endearing, in a childlike way.

Chester and Noel were staring in Billie's direction as she approached, the former perplexed and latter fearful. Billie tried to look relaxed and confident about the whole thing, but had a feeling she was not particularly successful. When within a couple yards, she stepped slightly to the side, showing Aspen with an underwhelming gesture.

"This is Aspen.. the one I told you about yesterday."

"Hello." Aspen stared down at their fingers, fidgeting. Their gaze moved to Noel's place, very slowly moving their head upwards until looking at her face, but not her eyes. Noel was hesitant, but believed Aspen was probably just an unusually grubby child.

"Hello, Aspen. I'm Noel," she stepped forward to shake their hand before recoiling at how dirty they were.

"No-elle. Noel. Hi." They then looked at her boyfriend.

"Chester."

"Chez.. chez.." Aspen was apparently having trouble with this one. "Chez-ter. Che.. sher." It was close enough.

"Uh-huh. You too. Asp-ie." Chester snickered.

Both women shot him a dirty look. _Quit being nasty._

"I'm so sorry," Noel apologized to Aspen, bowing slightly.

Aspen didn't seem to understand the insult, leaning their head over. "Is okay," they accept the apology nonetheless, accessing a recorded script to follow.

"Ah.. Aspen," Noel pipes up. "Do you.. live here?"

"I live here. With Puppy. Yes. No! Not at the camp. In the woods. Yes. Me and Puppy."

"Do you.. not have parents?"

Chester and Billie both look at Noel, a little bewildered. Apparently Noel thought Aspen to be a minor-- not an impossible mistake to make, given their height and appearance.

"No. No parents. Just Puppy."

"That must be rough.."

"Yes and no."

Everyone waits for an elaboration which doesn't come. It's impossible to tell when and if Aspen will explain something. Aspen knew how they felt, but they did not know how to explain it.

"Did you really crawl out of the lake when you met Billie?" Chester probes for answers.

"Crawl.. out of the lake? Yes. On the dock. Did not see Bill-ee. Scared me."

Billie is astounded by the proclamation that Aspen was scared, given she was standing still when Aspen shot out of the water.

There felt like there was something hanging in the air between everyone. Billie was not so sure what was making the air so unbearably tense-- because she already knew the answer. She realized what it was when Noel spoke.

"What.. is on your shirt?"

Aspen spread their arms and looked down. "Blood."

"W-what?!" Noel shrieked. Chester stepped back slightly as well, looking more disgusted than afraid.

"Blood."

"Y-your blood?"

"No. Bunny blood. Bunny killed this morning. Billie told me to take him. So I took him."

Billie turned to Aspen. "Aspen, what the fuck?" Her voice was flat and low, but clearly angry. Aspen themself was thrown off by this statement. It wasn't difficult to understand why. Billie and Aspen were operating from two different points of view. For Billie, the sight of the rabbit was distressing and potentially problematic for their purposes at the camp. It would cause problems. Aspen, who sees the maimed corpses of animals regularly, did not think it abnormal or perturbing. They did not even know the purposes for Billie's suggestion that they take it away; as far as Aspen was concerned, it was practically a gift. That rabbit was for Billie, but surely, who wouldn't want a freshly-killed, partially-disemboweled rabbit? So Billie's anger was completely unexpected. And Aspen was afraid.

"I'm sorry," Aspen whispered. They didn't know what they had done wrong, but they didn't want anyone to be mad at them.

"You killed a rabbit?" Chester faced Billie.

"No! I found a dead rabbit.. I told Aspen to take it."

"Why would you do that?"

"Because you already didn't believe me about Aspen! I didn't think you'd believe me about the rabbit.."

This seemed to make the couple believe Billie even less than had she just shown them the carcass. Billie stepped back. Aspen had already admitted that they knew the culprit.

"I didn't kill it. Aspen says that their dog did it."

"Puppydog," Aspen corrected her, nodding.

"A dog?! Goodness gracious!" Noel was expectedly upset by this development. "You have a dog that can do that? Is your dog.. Vicious? To people, I mean?"

Aspen's eyes remained wide-open, directed towards the ground. They did not make any indication that they had heard Noel's question, but their pupils danced frantically, trying to visually assemble the answer.

"Yes." Aspen finally said. Noel gasped, covering her face with her hands, her skinny knees knocking together. _Jesus! Why didn't you just lie to her?_

"Aspen, can you keep your dog inside for the next couple of days?" Billie tried to salvage this mess.

"No."

Noel only became more distressed, considering the thought of a very real dog attacking them. "I-is.. The dog big? A big dog?"

"So big."

"Please." Billy was practically pleading, for everyone's emotional well-being. "We'll only be here until tomorrow. Then your puppy can go outside again." 

"No. Can't. He doesn't listen. Not to me. No."

"Can we _please_ just get this goddamn freak out of here!?" Chester yelled.

"Chester!" Noel scolded him, despite her own affliction.

"No! I'm serious!" he countered. "If there's anything haunting this godforsaken place, it's this thing! Just get it out of here!"

Aspen did not say anything. Their face did not change. An uncomfortable silence overtook everyone, waiting for a response that did not seem to come. Billie felt oddly relieved, as if she had released her anger along with Chester's outburst. It made her feel better for a moment, but she realized that was probably not any better than having said it herself.

"Maybe.. it would be best if you left for now."

Aspen fired a look of pure anguish at Billie. They had not established any connection to Chester and Noel-- their rejection might have hurt, but not in the same way. In contrast, Billie's rejection felt like an absolute betrayal. It was not difficult to decipher these emotions. Billie knew that it would be so easy to just tell Aspen to fuck off so they could resume with their work, but she had a feeling that this rejection was outright devastating to a teenager who apparently had no parents, living in an abandoned forest with only a dog. She considered that Aspen might live here to purposefully avoid people, but maybe it was more complicated than that. Either way, Aspen clearly valued Billie's attention, even if it was not completely reciprocated. 

"Ah.. come on, Aspen. We can go together," Billie put an unwilling hand on Aspen's back, encouraging back the way they had come. Billie gave a final look at Chester and Noel, neither looking particularly happy, though in their own ways. "I'll be back," Billie muttered before walking off. 

"Oh yeah, take your time," Chester sneered at them before turning to Noel. She only sighed in response, crossing her arms. She didn't know what exactly was the appropriate course of action here, but she didn't like Billie nor Chester's. 

"What way to your.. uh.. house?" Billie stopped just short of the forest's edge.

"Can't go home," Aspen sounded particularly flat. "Puppy home. Billie. No Puppy." They were less coherent as well, either not trying very hard because of poor mood, or not knowing how to express themself.

"Well, let's go somewhere else, then."

Aspen led the way, tip-toeing through the open spots of debris and vegetation on the forest floor. It was actually rather impressive to watch them, clearly they were used to traversing this forest. Or, it would have been, but Billie was a bit distracted by Aspen's grunts, letting out soft "mm"s and "ow"s every now and again. Did they regularly walk through the woods barefoot?

Eventually, they reached a small clearing. The grass here was oddly well-maintained, the tall vegetation cut to form the indent of a nearly-perfect circle. Eight evenly-spaced stones of roughly equal size lined its circumference. Above them was a fairly open spot in the canopy, granting a view of the sky.

"Special spot." Aspen declares.

"Why is it special?"

Aspen pauses, and their brow furrows as they consider it. "Not.. my special spot."

"It's someone else's?" 

"...Yes. Kinda..."

"Should we not be here?" Billie looked around. There were no houses, no signage. It didn't look like somebody's property.

Aspen looked at her with incredible intensity, and without hesitating, muttered, "You shouldn't be."

Billie suddenly felt terribly unsettled. The air seemed to become stagnant and quiet.

Aspen looked away and relaxed. "But.. will be okay." It was not very convincing. Aspen dropped to the ground, motioning for Billie to do the same. She complies, but is already anxious to leave.

"Aspen.. I've never had a dog before. But I love to pet them... Can you take me to see your dog?" Billie smiled, patiently and warmly, but with terrified eyes. It was clear Aspen loved their dog, in spite of its behavior, and Billie wanted to engage with Aspen's passions. She also wanted to get the fuck out of...wherever this was. But in response, Aspen furrowed their brows, distressed again.

"No. No Puppy, no. He doesn't like people."

"Nobody? Not even people with you?"

"No.. Doesn't listen. Not to me. No."

"Sounds like he's pretty troublesome, huh.." Billie trailed off. "If he doesn't like people, why is he with you, then?"

Aspen thought, bringing their fingers to their lips, biting a nail. This appeared to be a question they genuinely did not know the answer to. "I found Puppy as a kid. Puppy doesn't hate kids. No. Kids are okay. I think. Teenagers and adults, they're no good." They shook their head soberly. "No good."

Billie laughed at Aspen's serious face when discussing this topic. "Do you think teens and adults are no good?"

Aspen looked startled. "No! They are good. Well, sometimes. They're fine.. They can be good. Or they can be bad. Either..." Aspen frantically reassured her. Billie couldn't help but laugh even more at their earnest efforts. She looked at Aspen's round face-- _Aspen was a child when they found their dog? How long ago would that have been?_ Billie examined them. It was hard to ascertain Aspen's age. They were quite short: just barely breaking 5-feet, and their body was twiggy, without visible breasts. There was a curve to their hips, but it was not clear if this was a natural feature of their body, or the result of their oversized clothing. They would appear to be a younger teenager if not for their exhausted facial features. If Billie had to guess, she'd say Aspen looked somewhere between a teenage boy and a woman in her early twenties. She thought it would be rude to ask their age, though, and she didn't think gender was very important anyway.

"You met your puppy when you were a kid.. I guess he's not really a puppy anymore, huh?"

"No." Aspen said tersely. "Puppy is Puppy. He will always be Puppy. Always." Billie felt she had just been chastised.

"I see... I'm sorry."

"It's okay. I'm sorry, too. Billie is good. Yes. Thank you." The air had become lighter somehow. A little less stagnant, letting the leaves rustle slightly. Closing her eyes momentarily, she focused on her other senses. The wind ran through Billie's short hair, across her face, behind her ears. She inhaled deeply, smelling the water, the earth, the trees. It was a cool day for August. When she opened her eyes, Aspen was gazing at her with an intense serenity in their pitch-black eyes.

"Will you stay here, Billie?"

"What do you mean?" Billie smiled, but was taken aback by the question.

"Stay here with me, Billie. Please. Stay." Aspen pleaded with her. Their fingers brushed against Billie's hand, very lightly, bordering on imperceptibly. Billie recoiled instinctively, much to Aspen's dismay, as a look of hurt and disappointment rose to their face. The forest in turn lost its excitement, its susurration winding down into reticence.

"That wouldn't work," she quickly tried to assuage their pain. She had come here to make Aspen feel better, but it felt like disappointment would be inevitable, one way or another. "You already said that your puppy hates people. So it wouldn't work, right?" Her smile was now forced, and both of them knew it.

"Yeah. You're right. I'm sorry, Bill-ee."

She shook her head. "Don't worry about it." But Aspen looked very worried about it.


	4. Chapter 4

His home was situated about half a kilometre from Crystal Lake. It was an older house, more akin to a small cabin, or maybe even a large shed. It was selling for dirt-cheap, despite recent renovations. He thought it was odd-- weren't tiny homes all the rage these days?

Some digging elucidated the reason. Apparently, Crystal Lake, as well as the surrounding areas, were considered cursed by local inhabitants. A few decades ago, a killing spree resulted in the death of half a dozen college students. Every five to ten years, a similar massacre occurs. Other odd events only solidified the legends-- decapitated animals found near the forest, ominous chanting, fires without apparent cause. The locals avoided the area like the plague, but they were xenophobic enough to allow outsiders to march into the devil's nest without qualm.

He didn't place much personal value on traditions or superstitions. And although he didn't want to step on anyone's toes, he couldn't help but feel Crystal Lake could be a good research spot. He found it ideal, really. The fewer people, the better his work could proceed.

Or, so he thought. Availability around here had been an issue. Surely, it would have been an issue anywhere, but the people here were not particularly welcoming, nor willing to work with him. He had managed to snag a few subjects here and there. But it cost money, of which he was now severely lacking. Nobody would be willing to risk the potential legal nightmare that could ensue from selling dead bodies without some type of compensation.

The man in question is 22-year-old Emmerson Hayward. It is one month prior to Billie's arrival at Camp Crystal Lake. He is standing in the backyard of his cabin, leaning against the furthest wall of his house. He wears a t-shirt and sweatpants. While taking a long drag off a joint, he looks up. Gloomy, woolly clouds are convocating above as the air becomes denser. Next to him, on the ground, a trapdoor opens. Crawling out is a man in his late-twenties, crowned with wild, dirty-blonde hair.

"Sheesh!" the man exclaims. "Cold as hell down there!"

"Hell isn't c-c-cold," Emmerson smirks.

The man smiles back. "Knew you could talk," he chuckles. Emmerson tightened at the comment. The man sighs upon seeing his awkward expression. "Jeez, sorry, sorry.." he uttered. Emmerson was pretty new around here, and didn't seem like he socialized much. David wanted to be friendly with him, but he did seem a bit delicate. He shrugged. Not like most of his customers were very talkative with him, anyway.

"Th-thanks, D-David," Emmerson whimpered as he handed several hundred-dollar bills to him.

David took the money with a wide smile. As long as he got paid, he couldn't give too much of a fuck how much Emmerson talked to him.

"Anytime, friend," with a curt wave, David kicked the hatch shut, an unpleasant ringing erupting from the closure. He walked back to the front of the home. Emmerson listened, waiting there, until he could hear his car start and drive off. He was planning to do some preliminary work on his new vessel today, but his mood had now soured. He wondered what David thought of him. How he judged him. If he thought he was stupid. Or if there was something wrong with him. Emmerson wished he didn't have to talk. He wished he never had to talk again.

No.. He exhaled his final puff of the blunt. He imagined his negativity flowing out with it. He was probably just projecting. He shouldn't assume the worst all of the time. But it had become such a habit.

He throws the remnants of the paper to the ground, stomping out the residual embers. He'd worry about work tomorrow. Right now he needed some wine.

***

Conditions between the three outsiders were less than ideal because of the incident with Aspen and the rabbit. When Billie returned from the "special spot," they decided to take an extended break from filming in an attempt to ease the tension a bit. They agreed to resume in the evening, hoping that things would have calmed by then.

By the time 9 PM rolled around, everyone had congregated by the still-standing tripod. They all looked a little tired, but they were set on finishing the filming. Chester and Billie could get away with their exhaustion and bitterness, but Noel could not. She simply did not have the vibrancy for which she was known. Billy assured her that in the darkness, and in this setting, it would be understandable if she were not as bubbly as normal. But Noel wasn't satisfied with that. She had to be _perfect._

"We should ease into it a little," Billie suggested. "Film the interior of one of the cabins. You won't even have to be on the camera. Just describe it all. Maybe you'll be warmed up by then." Noel agreed. She didn't like doing things out of order, but it was this or nothing. First, they start with the easiest cabin: the one they had been sleeping with. They opened the tattered curtains, allowing the warm, evening light to flood the inside. It almost looked pleasant. Unfortunately, the light also made the collected dust very visible as well. Some of the dust of the cabin had deposited on the sleeping bags. Noel didn't like viewers seeing that she had slept in such a dirty place, but Chester and Billie insisted that it added to the genuinity of the scene.

"This is our 'camp.' We've been sleeping, eating, and getting ready in here," she explained lethargically. "It's the biggest of the cabins. It's dirty, but pretty cute, right?" The stale motivational posters and lines of beds felt outdated. You could almost imagine children here, but not children from this time period. "We have only slept in the sleeping bags. The objects and furniture are all left the way they were when the camp was finally abandoned in the 1980s." Billie wondered under what circumstances the cabin was left. Some beds were neatly made, others had their blankets flowing off their mattresses. Books, toys, and board games were placed at seemingly random areas throughout. A select few of the bunks had personal objects on or next to them, such as photographs, necklaces, letters or notes.

Billie almost felt emotional seeing the 'living' remnants of the camp. When reading about the horrific crimes that occurred here, it felt theoretical. Like a story. Disconnected from an actual event. But even the more dubious claims about Camp Crystal Lake were false, murders _did_ occur here. That much was confirmed. They were real people, with real lives, families, hopes, dreams, and struggles. They were ripped from their loved ones and denied the opportunity to fulfill their aspirations. In the majority of the killings, the motive was never determined.

Billie slowly ambled through the rows of beds, taking the time to record the cabin to the fullest, getting the little details. It was a gruellingly slow pace, maybe too slow to include in Noel's final product in its entirety, if at all. But Billie wanted to record it anyway. It was important.

"When you're ready, Billie." Noel delicately told her. She had let time get away from her.

"Yeah, I'm good. Sorry."

"Don't be." she brightened despite her fatigue. "The.. the counselor's cabin, next?" The other two agreed. Beginning to cool, Noel grabs a cardigan from her bag, although there was nothing that could be done about her legs, with only the short dress and knee-high socks to cover them. Chester also helped himself to a cover: a red, hooded flannel. It was a little big on him-- unusual, as Chester himself was not a slight of a man.

The light of the sun was waning rapidly outside, almost completely dissipated. The sky was spotted dark blue and grey, with only a few bright blue rays extending up from the horizon. A sprinkling of rain had begun, quickly pushing them into the second cabin. The barracks-style building was lined with windows on the longest sides, letting in ample light when it was available. This was perhaps in part so that the inside was clearly visible from the exterior, to facilitate monitoring and ensure the good behavior of the children inside. The counselors' cabin, however, was constructed the same as a typical house, having only a few windows. The dimming sun outside now made the cabin likewise devoid of light, and the lights inside obviously did not work anymore. Chester prepared a flashlight, waving its rays across the walls.

"This looks like it was the counselors' residence," in the nighttime, Noel instinctually whispered her words. "The Crystal Lake killer who haunted this region had a preference for counselors. Most were high school or college students, usually killed with blunt or sharp objects. It is likely that many of the killer's victims spent their last few hours within this building.." Billie and Chester attempted to align their equipment, pointing the flashlight and camera in the same general directions, until they decided to affix the flashlight to the camera. Billie turned to the hole in the wall, which looks much more ominous when illuminated in this situation. She begins to consider that this was not the result of some quirky accident.

"The killer was identified as Jason Voorhees, who committed most of his confirmed acts within a single week, himself being killed at th--" a creaking resounded throughout the cabin. It rang through the building for an uncomfortably long time, as if someone had been slowly pressing down on the squeakiest floorboard for maximum effect. It is punctuated by a quick _shink!,_ like friction against metal. This was not a noise which could be produced by three stationary individuals. It was not the sound which naturally occurs with the seasonal and climatic settling of the wood. Noel's eyes broadened, waiting for some sign from either of her friends. Nobody told her to continue, so she did not.

"Where.. did that come from?" Billie mumbled, her eyes first set on Noel, who only shrugs, afraid to make any greater sound or movement. Her look transfers over to Chester, whose own hazel eyes had become large and severe. He turns to the left, to a yet un-traversed section of the cabin, upon which a small table was situated.

"Over there, I think.." Everyone stares at the area. There is clearly no person standing there, but everyone stares with that anticipation that some figure will manifest. Noel's lower lip begins to quiver, scleras becoming watery and red. Billie can hear her breath.

"Chester. Go check it out," Billie urged him.

"What? Why don't you?!"

"Because you've got half a foot on me."

"Jesus. What're you expecting me to find over there?" Billie gingerly pinched the flashlight off of the tripod, handing it to Chester like a precious artifact or a lethal poison. He lets the light loiter in the spot for a moment, before taking a single cautionary step forward. The floorboards creak, reminding them that the sound could have only been caused by pressure somewhere on the boards. Billie and Noel watch him take a second step, then a third, and so on, becoming progressively faster. The increasing rate made them tense. Billie grips the tripod, a sweaty print left on the pole. Noel folds her arms, pulling the cardigan tightly around her midsection, creating a barrier around the vital organs. The flashlight flits around, its user convinced of some lurking terror in this house. Chester stops. A very slow creak begins again, accompanied by subdued scratching. Chester's flashlight darts downward.

One edge of the highlighted floorboard elevated to reveal a monstrous arm grasping at Chester. Its aim-- Chester's arm-- is missed, thanks to Chester's early detection of the beast under the floor. It does manage to catch the sleeve of the flannel, pulling the man down with a single sharp wrench without pause or hesitation. Noel lets out an extended bone-chilling screech at the sight of her boyfriend being attacked by the shadowy demon.

"Shit! Fuck!" Chester pulls back, trying to create enough space in the shirt to take it off, but the force on his sleeve is massive.

Billie's head whips over to the front door. She should run. Chester is already dead. Noel is five-foot-three and 105 pounds. She doesn't stand a chance. But if Billie runs now, then she could survive. Let Chester and Noel be distractions.

_What the fuck am I thinking?!_

She snatches Noel's raised wrist. "I'm sorry, I'm so, so sorry Noel!" she jerks her forward, nearly yanking her to the ground. "We have to go! Now!"

"No!" Noel screams at her, "I can't leave him! I can't leave him! I--"

"God! Just _go_ Noel!" Chester yells out to her, ending her prattling. She resists Billy's pull one more time before giving in, watching Chester as the two women escape. Chester manages to push back, taking advantage of the creature's distraction by the women's flight. He falls to the floor and frantically rushes to shed the flannel as the floorboard is completely torn away. The creature breaks through the floor, creeping to the surface, a machete kept in the previously-unseen hand. The creature was mostly obscured in the darkness, but was clearly humanoid, although very large. Its face appeared completely white and mostly featureless, save for two large, completely black eyes.

It seized the man's ankle, but lacked full concentration and strength due to its ongoing emergence from below. This allowed for Chester to pull back momentarily and kick the face of the monster, twisting its head to the side with a powerful _crack!._ Chester rolls to his knees and attempts to stand, but was hindered as the thing dropped the machete down towards him, slashing the man's calf. He cries out from the sharp pain, hot blood immediately seeping out of the cut, and involuntarily reaches back, grasping around his calves. His strong will is the only force breaking him from the natural instinct to tend to his wound, pushing himself to stand to his feet, withstanding the pain of the laceration. The monster likewise finds its footing, chasing the man closely from behind. It was not particularly fast, and in normal circumstances, could probably have been outrun. But these were not normal circumstances: Chester had a deep wound running down his calf.

The creature reaches out, clutching the back of his head and pulling his hair and head back. When it confirmed its grip, it instantly thrust the machete into the man's back with tremendous force. The machete is stopped short of the front of his body by some unknown barrier. Now stationary, the monster pushes the knife in deeper, to no avail: a light scratching felt by the tip of the blade. Chester felt hot liquid rise up his throat, forcing his body to try to cough it up, wiggling the machete lodged in his body. He did not think about the pain. He thought about the discomfort of becoming aware of body parts which you had never been reminded that you had. With one final shove of the machete, it cracks Chester's sternum and pierces through the front of his body. His body collapses to the ground, on his knees, and the creature places a boot-clad foot on the dull edge of the machete and presses down. The blade tears through him, down to his belly. It kicks Chester's back down, drawing the machete from his body as he lay on the wet grass. He thought it felt cold. The creature watched as he gagged and choked, puddles of blood oozing out of his mouth and chunks of muscle and viscera forcibly coughed out. The monster was not only surprised by his consciousness, but thought it was sad to watch. It placed a boot on his pulsating neck to secure him in place, and, holding the knife's handle with both hands, it plunged the blade into the young man's temple. The sound of the skull cracking coincided with the cessation of coughing. The creature was glad to have ended it.

Billie and Noel sprinted across the overgrown grass fields which separated the camp facilities from the entrances accessible by car. Billie had already kicked off her shoes-- her nylon-encased feet were more agile.

"Stay close to me!" she yelled to Noel. She would not look behind her. She could only look forward to her goal. She heard nothing from Noel. She hoped that she was still there. In this place, far from the light of civilization, it was easy to become lost when not pursued by a demon. She prayed that she and Noel had not separated.

Billie could hear _something_ behind her.

_Don't look back. Keep going. Just let your body keep going. Trust the instinct._

She could see her car in the distance. She felt the pockets of her jacket, begging any god who would listen that her keys were in one of them. She stopped her feel-up when she realized she was slowing herself down. A problem to worry about in a minute or two. Her breath was becoming rough and heavy, becoming so uneven that she can feel severe pangs of pain pulsing through her chest. In the final few yards, her head becomes light, vision blurry and spotted. She overshoots her car door just slightly, grabbing onto the handle, causing her to skid across the pavement, the nylons ripping and road scraping her feet. At last, she allows herself to look back. Noel is completely absent, not even visible from afar. The thing from which she had been running, however, was not too far. About 50 yards, she saw it: some kind of swampy, vaguely human-like creature with a white nondescript face. It wielded a machete, which she had not been present to see in the counselors' cabin.

She desperately patted down the pockets of her bomber jacket, feeling for any hint of the keys, but with no luck. She fishes into each pocket, managing to locate them in the pocket on the right-side stomach pocket. The automatic unlock button flows into her thumb, opening the car to her. The door is swung free with force unbelievable even to herself, and she crawls madly inside, stepping over the stickshift and forcing the glovebox open. Inside was a .22 caliber pistol, a gift from her father when she moved to college. She never thought she would have to use it.

She steps on the floor of the car, standing just outside the driver seat, elevated above the vehicle's roof, and aims the gun at the killer, now uncomfortably close. It is heavier than she remembers, and she remembers it being pretty heavy. To her surprise, they only flinch slightly upon the sight of the pistol before continuing forward. _What the fuck?! Why isn't he stopping?!_ She aims the pistol the best she can in the darkness, her hands shaking from the fear and fatigue.

 **"FUCK YOU!"** she screams into the abyss, letting her stress and anger flood out of her. She is not going to die here. She squeezes the trigger, the gun emitting a deafening _CRACK!_ as a puff of smokey gunpowder envelopes her vision. The gun recoils significantly, almost popping out of her grip. To her ecstatic surprise, she sees the bullet has pierced the side of the monster. It looks down at the freshly-torn clothing as blood trickles out of it. But something happened which Billie could not have predicted: he kept moving towards her. It was unmoved by the bullet wound. Her heart begins to race again as she brings the weight of the gun upwards, firing again, the loud cracking of the gun sounding off. A better shot: he's hit in the right side of his collarbone, he turns his head to look at it and Billie shoots one more time without a second thought. It pierces the side of his head. Blood oozes out of his head as he staggers backwards, head swiveling back to Billie, black holes looking through her. He falls backward, motionless on the ground.

Billie stares, afraid that he might shake off these wounds, too. She does not dare to approach the corpse, just on the off-chance. She knew it was silly, but she thought that the idea of getting attacked here was pretty silly, too. Looking around, there was the problem of Noel. She couldn't see or hear her anywhere. No running, no screams. In fact, Billie couldn't hear anything. It was dead quiet.

 _I'll come back. I promise._ She tucks herself into the driver's seat, forcing the car to start. It turns on with a lazy yawn, having not witnessed any of what she had gone through. Barreling down the dirt path, she's ready to get the hell out here, to.. where? The police? Yeah, that's probably the only option. Billie didn't like the idea, but there wasn't much to be done. She races down the rough road, car vibrating from the bumps.

"!--Shit!" she approaches a sharp turn as the road begins to transition to something closer to a modern paving. She did just survive a murderer chasing her with a machete. It would really suck to die in a car accident now.

She slows down, the car crawling back to the town, though at a gruelingly slow rate. Billie could feel herself begin to dissociate from everything. She tried to bring herself back into her body, gripping the steering wheel, straining her eyes with the headlights. She starts to think it might've been better to dissociate. She just left Noel at that camp. She had no idea if she was alive. Chester was almost certainly either injured or dead, and she didn't even try to help him. She pulled over to the side of the road. She folds her arms over her steering wheel, sinks her head down into it, and cries. 

***

It was nearly 2 AM. Emmerson sat curled on his loveseat, cozied up in his favorite fuzzy blanket, a cup of green tea sitting nearby. He knew he shouldn't stay up so late-- in his defense, he had really tried to sleep earlier. But the book had been too damn good. It beckoned his name. He had no choice but to follow its demands. He continued on, anxious to hear of the development of Elizabeth's relationship.

_"...Nor am I ashamed of the feelings I related. They were natural and just. Could you expect me to rejoice in the inferiority of your connections? To congratulate myself on the hope of relations, whose condition in life is so decidedly beneath my own?" Elizabeth felt herself growing more angry every moment; yet she tried to the utmost to speak with composure when she said,"_

**"FUCK YOU!"** Huh? That didn't sound right.

He looks around his tiny living room. Did he just imagine that?

Placing the book down, he listens closely. He feared that the rain outside obscured any unusual sounds, and so he approached the window by the door, looking out into the rain. This was equally useless, given the late hour, combined with the fact that the absence of lights outside made detecting abnormalities all but impossible. He shrugged it off, briefly considering that it may be time to finally go to sleep, before hearing a loud _CRACK!_ outside. He froze, listening intently again. _CRACK! CRACK!_ He can hear the distinct sound of a car racing down the street, much too quickly. Surely enough, the headlights of the vehicle soon came into view before disappearing down the road as quickly as they had appeared.

It was much too late for this type of bullshit.

He fetches a flashlight, sliding some new batteries into the shaft. He closes the lid tightly, hoping the rain won't be able to leak through. He opens the door, very hesitantly. Stepping into the darkness, he looked in the direction of where the car came from. The road led into Camp Crystal Lake. Emmerson had heard the rumors about the place. He didn't believe them, but it was still delightfully spooky to consider the possibility of a zombie killer skulking the campgrounds. But, zombie or no, he wasn't so sure it'd be a good idea to waltz in the direction of where he had heard considerable and possibly violent commotion. But he was just addicted to bad ideas lately.

He shines the flashlight down the road. The raindrops were visible as he walked, the dirt becoming muddy under his slippers. Maybe changing would've been prudent, but it was too late now. In spite of the rain, the area was eerily quiet. He'd've thought that the elements would have made it a bit noisy, shaking the branches and trees together. But it was oddly silent. It was louder back at the house.

The flashlight shines down on what Emmerson was looking for. He squinted at the barely-visible figure laying in the center of the road, about 10 yards away. His heart begins to pound, and his ears perk up. When he reaches it, he realizes it is indeed a human, albeit a rather massive one.

"Rough n-night?" He asked, poking the body gently with his slipper-clad foot. It did not respond. Bringing the lamp closer to the body, he is immediately alarmed and overwhelmed by the sight. There appeared to be three gunshot wounds in total-- likely the noises he had heard earlier. Two were in the trunk of the body, and one in the side of the head. But the appearance of the body had raised more questions than it had answered. Why was it wearing a hockey mask?

..Eh, it didn't matter. This fucker was a goner for sure. What a lucky find! The timing was rather inconvenient, however. He pulls one arm up in an attempt to move the body. Not a chance. It was far too heavy. Emmerson knew he should've started weightlifting. How long had he been telling himself that he would? _Idiot!_

He shrines the light down on the body, trying to figure out how to simultaneously drag the decedent with both arms and have the light shine on what he was doing. It considers a few different places, mostly in his own pockets or the cadaver's, but they all either didn't do the job or just blinded him. We'll have to do it in the dark.

Tucking his arms under its back, he gives his first attempt dragging it back. He's able to move it a couple of feet before he can feel some resistance. It swatted at him with a massive hand, managing to successfully hit him quite hard. Surprisingly hard, in fact, for having several bullets in them.

He attempts to compose himself. "It's g-going to be okay," he lies. "I can h-help you. We just.. need to.. g.. g-get inside." After a brief moment of silence, the figure struggles to their feet, tripping into him. Emmerson offers an arm around him, from which he first recoils, before very hesitantly accepting the meager help.

He was very heavy, almost crushing Emmerson as he leaned against him. At least in this way, he could still use the flashlight. Guided back to the house by the light of the lamp, Emmerson guides him inside, to the sofa. "L-lay down, and t-try not to move.. much." He already regrets not putting them on the floor instead. This person is absolutely filthy. It better be worth the ruined furniture.

He ran upstairs, barely able to contain his excitement. He fetches the kit he had specially prepared in the linen closet, hidden somewhat under a mound of quilts. Did he remember to restock it after last time..? Ah, well. There's no time to mull over it. He rushes back downstairs, happy to see the body still in its appropriate place. Pushing the coffee table aside haphazardly-- spilling his tea over!-- he settled down in front of it, placing the kit on the side.

"D-don't worry. I'm going to give you s-something to numb the pain, and to calm you.. d.. uh.. a bit," he assures the man. Giddily affixing a 23 gauge hypodermic needle to a syringe, he draws up a generous dose of midazolam. He winces slightly as Emmerson pierces the skin, but the tension in him desisted as the drug was administered, eventually closing his mask-covered eyes.

He turned on his phone's microphone and began recording.

"B-body was found at.. oh.. approximately 2 AM, on July 5th, 2020, ab.. around 20 meters from home. My home. Subject has b-been shot three times, once in the left side of the head, twice in the abdomen. He seems to b-be a male, in his... early- to mid-thirties. For unknown reasons, he appears to be wearing a hockey mask. His clothes are b-b-blood-laden, although in some regions that do not seem immediately related to his wounds." He has the most unhealthy, unnatural complexion he had ever seen: a dark, ash-like color, with a slight bluish tint. It looks more dramatic than cyanosis, but it can't be necrosis.. Emmerson rubs his fingers across his hand-- it's very cold, and while slightly rough, it's clearly alive. Of course. He just saw him moving a minute ago.

He gently removed the hockey mask.

"Sub-b-bject appears to have some type of physical anomaly.." Diagnostics were never his strong suit. He turns the head from side to side, running his hand from just behind the ear to the chin. It was odd. The left side of his face appeared relatively normal, but the right side had numerous abnormalities. The right eye was situated lower than the left, with an underdeveloped eyelid. The muscles below the skin on the right side were probably atrophied, causing a very clear dividing line running down the center of the face. Emmerson thought it was extremely bizarre-- not because of the anomalous facial features themselves. That didn't bother him very much. But rather, it was the nature of the deformities that bugged him. The muscular atrophy was almost certainly acquired, although it was quite advanced. The skull deformity could potentially have been some type of unaddressed craniosynostosis. The eye definitely was definitely congenital, but it was unclear as to whether it was genetic or due to teratogenic exposure. He hadn't heard of any cases like this, and he had difficulty thinking of how such a deformity would affect one side of the face so severely while leaving the other half entirely untouched. 

"It's.. um.. Parry-Romb-b-berg Syndrome, mayb-b-be? With untreated craniosynostosis, and.. uh.. an unknown congenital defect of ocular develop-pment. All exclusively affecting the right side." Yeah. Whatever. We'll go with that for now.

Next he patted down his pockets, looking for a wallet. Nothing. He thought it odd that he wouldn't carry any identifying documents. Then again, he did find him in the middle of the road, wearing a hockey mask, with three gunshot wounds.

He prepared another syringe, this time taking a blood sample and capping it off with ease that rivaled any phlebotomist. He wrote the date on the tube, along with "US4". Unknown Specimen #4.

Now the dirty work began.

Emmerson tried to remove his jacket, but it was practically impossible while the body was weighing it down... He thought about how he'd get the cadaver off of his sofa. But that sounded like tomorrow's problem. Emmerson settled on pushing the collar over. Under the jacket was a sweatshirt, which was more difficult to simply push aside. Emmerson drew his scissors and, pulling the fabric taut, cut it open down the abdomen. _Another_ fucking shirt! At least it's a button-up. He almost just snipped the buttons off, but after a deep breath, fumbled with buttons. The subject had well-defined muscle structures-- it would make this process a little easier.

"First gunshot wound ap-p-pears to be lodged in the right p..p-pectoralis major, just b-below the collarb-b.. er.. uh.. the clavicle," he lightly pushed the fabric aside on the left side, "the second is in the external o-b-blique, in the left flank p-pad."

The secret to an effective dissection is using the scalpel very sparingly. Using a probe, he opened the wounds very gently, blood spurting out in small droplets from the manipulation. The tweezers had no issue retrieving the bullet from the pectoral, causing blood to pour out. In his body-snatching ecstasy, he had forgotten to get towels! In a moment of panic, he grabbed the nearest fabric to mop it up. As red seeped across it, he realized it was his favorite blanket.

Annoyed and feeling the adrenaline begin to wear off, he dug the tweezers into the wound of the oblique. He feels the body twitch slightly. Was he still alive? He's both disturbed and fascinated by the thought of a subject with such a hardy constitution, but didn't feel up to speculating the matter right now. He tugs on the bullet, only for it to become stuck under a rogue segment of torn muscle. He pushed it back towards the body with the probe, allowing the bullet to be removed. He quickly mopped up the resultant blood, using the blanket again. It's already stained, so there's no use in being finicky now.

He considered whether or not to stitch up the injuries. Certainly, in a proper medical context, they would need to be. But this was not a proper medical context. Anyway, his wounds were fatal. What was the point in stitching up a frog which has already been eviscerated? But, he was perhaps still alive, for now. It would be unethical to not do something to prolong his now drastically-reduced lifespan. It'd be good practice, at the very least.

He never had a formal lesson on sutures. But his mom did teach him how to sew. It's basically the same thing, right? He threaded a hooked needle and made loops about three-quarters of a centimetre apart, and about a full centimetre in length. When done, he noted the uneven spacing and lack of symmetry. He thought he was truly pretty bad at suturing. Maybe that's why he preferred dead bodies over live ones: no need to worry about the scars. He stared at the craftsmanship, reflecting on his movements, his improvements, his mistakes. He beat himself up over it.

But it didn't matter now. It was done, and he had done all he could, even if he thought it was shit. He gave him a dose of an anxiolytic for good measure. It would be unpleasant to be woken up in the middle of the night by screams of agony. He looked down at the comatose body, a little disappointed in himself, but progress is progress. A shame about the furniture, though.

Tomorrow he would start on excising the bullet from his skull. He checked the clock-- 3:42 AM. Definitely not the right time for brain surgery. He popped the blood sample into the fridge with the rest of them. He sighed, seeing the rack of samples. That was nearly all in the fridge these days: cheap wine, condiments, and blood samples.

He trudged up the stairs to bed, taking one last look at the body from the overlook above. He flopped into bed, feeling his muscles relax into the linens. He slept sound and easy that night, basking in the sweet serenity of post-dissection afterglow.

***

He woke up to a soft morning sunshine through his curtains. The clock reads 9:29 AM. Not an ideal time to be waking up, but it had been a late night. He looked down at his clothes, and the slippers which had apparently fallen off his feet during his sleep. They were caked in now-darkened blood. He doubted they were salvageable. He also remembered the tea that spilled to the floor last night. Jesus. Today's clean-up is gonna be a real headache. He fantasized about simply leaving it for tomorrow, but forced the thought out. He had just woken up, it's far too early to start procrastinating.

Instead, he changed into fresh clothes, topped with a clean, pressed labcoat and latex gloves. We will get started early today. But he opted for the bloodstained slippers instead of boots. Sure, it's not appropriate PPE, but this is his house, his rules. Exiting the bedroom, he peers downstairs from the overlook. On the loveseat, a horrible reddish-black stain stared back at him. 

The body was gone. 


	5. Chapter 5

At some point, Noel had diverged from Billie. She really thought that she was right behind her. She closed her eyes once. When she opened them, Billie was gone. She was facing the forest. Did she turn that way? Was someone playing a trick? Or was she just confused from the strain of everything that's happened? She had no time to think about it-- somewhere behind her, not too far, there was a demon. She had to get away. She rushed forward, into the forest. It was so loud. The forest was deafening. The rain, the wind, the crashing together of the branches. Noel could hardly hear herself think.

She quickly learned that this was not the best of routes to take. The rain was beginning to make the ground slick. Her sneakers were not actually very good for athletes. They just looked cute.

She ran as far as she could. She kept going, but the forest never ended. Drained of all of her energy, she begins to slow, becoming dizzy. She persists with slowed but wide steps, until she steps down onto something solid-- a branch? When she tries to lift her foot, she feels a cutting bite on her ankle. She yelps out in pain, tumbling to the ground. Trying to crawl sends unbearable agony up her leg, radiating into her entire body. She lets out another moan before accepting her demise. She slips as she tries to settle into the ground, further scratching her ankle, forcing a whimper from her. She can't hear if someone is still chasing her. It was no use anymore. She couldn't run any further. She couldn't move at all. She closed her eyes, rain sprinkling onto her hair, and sloshy mud saturating her bare calves. It felt kind of nice.

***

She wakes up to the sound of water lapping up sand in paper-thin sheets. She struggles to open her eyes: every time she tries, she feels them burning. _Oh no!_ She remembers that she was wearing her circle lenses yesterday. She pats around her cardigan's pockets for her compact mirror.

_Um.._

She feels her fingers rub off some sort of residue onto her cardigan. What was on them? What was going on? Wait, where am I? What happened last night?

...

She blindly wipes off her fingers the best she can before carelessly attempting to remove her contacts without a mirror. She fails the first time, but miraculously succeeds the second. She blinks her eyes repeatedly before madly checking her surroundings. She remembered recording, being attacked, running into the woods. She fell down, and.. and.. fell asleep? But that's not where she was. She was on a shore. Her clothes and skin were encrusted with patches of dried mud-- at some point, she had definitely fallen down in the woods at some point. But looking ahead, down the shoreline, she's puzzled as to how she could've gotten here. Was this still Camp Crystal Lake?

More importantly: her ankle. Last night, she felt something horrible clamp down onto her ankle. Sure enough, there was an awful wound there. Her dark skin was shredded, exposing pink chunks of flesh and muscle below. She thought she could see some of her ankle bone as well, causing her to gag. She had to look away. This wound needed attention very soon.

She turns to look behind her.

"-- _EEK!"_ she squeals at the sight of a pale, dirty face staring at her. It's.. a teenage boy..? knelt down, watching her.

Oh.. it's Aspen.

"No-el." he droned.

"A-Aspen.. What.. what're you doing?" Noel brings her fists over her chest, threatened by the teensy, ghost-like boy.

"Found you. A-sleeping."

"I.. Aspen.." Noel didn't know where to begin. She didn't know if she _should_ begin. She had already met Aspen, but she didn't know very much about him.. There was undoubtedly something.. off about him. Did he have something to do with what happened last night? It goes without saying that the arm that burst out from under the floor was not Aspen's. But.. didn't he live around here? Did he know what that was? Right now, at the very least, he didn't seem to be hostile, and.. there's nobody else around. Aspen is the only person to turn to.

Noel tries to assemble the previous night's events in her mind. She thinks about how to vocalize it to the lake sprite. Upon remembering it all, she feels her throat tighten.

"Something attacked us last night," she wrings her hands, taking a deep breath before continuing. "Chester tried to fight it and.. I--" she sniffs, "I don't know what happened in that cabin.. Billie and I ran, but.." she looks around again. "We must have gotten separated, and I--.. I just--!" a sob escaped her chest as she tried to retell it. One sob led to another, and another, and salty tears began trailing down her dirtied face.

Aspen's brow wrinkled. He was either annoyed or sympathetic. He did not move. He just watched her cry for a little bit.

Finally, in a supremely uncomforting monotone, he mumbles, "Don't cry, No-el. Don't cry." He pats the sand next to them. Noel doesn't know what it means. Maybe a substitute for patting her? But it's not like she's out of reach. He's probably just awkward.

"No-el is lucky. Lucky girl."

"W-what?" she wipes her face with the back of her hands. "Why would you say that?"

Aspen bites his lip. "Puppy. Puppy gone.. Not at the camp. Not at home. Not anywhere. Eugh.." his face twists like it is now his turn to cry. Noel, naturally a very empathetic person, pats the same spot of sand that he had. He appears to understand.

"Why am I lucky that you lost your dog?" She thinks back to yesterday. She had gotten pretty upset while Aspen was talking about his rabid dog. True, Noel didn't want the dog around. She was already a little afraid of big dogs, and hearing him talk about its ferocity made her very worked up. But she didn't want Aspen to lose his dog. She didn't want to see him upset.

"Puppy attacked Chez-ter. Puppy attack No-el. Would have. But gone now.."

"No.. no, it wasn't a dog that attacked us last night. It was a human. It wasn't your puppy."

Aspen looked confused. He tilted his head, sloping his whole body a little. He stares at Noel, trying to process the information.

"Eh.." he groans. "Human..? Puppy.. is Puppy.." he presses his fingertips to his temples. "Ugh.. My Puppy.. attacked Chez-ter. Puppy.. was in the tunnels.."

"Tunnels?" this was the first mention of 'tunnels' from Aspen or anyone else. "What tunnels?"

"Tunnels.. under the house. Tunnels.. under the cabins. Under the camp. Puppy was in the tunnels."

Tunnels. Noel assumed there was a basement to the cabin. There had to be something under the cabin for a person to break through the floor. Could that be the same thing that Aspen was talking about.

"Puppy.. is Puppy a person?"

"Puppy is a 'person.' Puppy is Puppy." Aspen nods assuredly.

Noel didn't know what to say. She wanted to be upset. But she couldn't justify it to herself. Aspen had told them about Puppy. That he was dangerous. So Noel just couldn't bring herself to being angry.

"Where.. where is Puppy? Is he in the tunnels?"

"No! Gone!" Aspen becomes upset again. "Not in the tunnels. Not anywhere! Ugh.."

Noel wanted to comfort him again. He looked so pitiful. She almost told him that she'd help him look for Puppy, until she remembered that might kill her.

"I'm so sorry, Aspen." she patted the sand again.

Aspen wiped his eyes and nose with his massively-oversized sleeves. "Is okay, No-el." He is still wearing the bloodied shirt from yesterday. "Good for No-el."

She figured that much was true. She had no idea where 'Puppy' went, but at least she was safe for the time being. But.. where does she go now? What does she do? Right now, it looks like she might be stuck on the shore with this tattered ankle.

"Aspen.. did you bring me here?"

"Where?"

"The shore."

"No. Found No-el. Just laying down." he shook his head. "Thought she was dead! Poor No-el.."

Noel certainly didn't walk here. And she was in the woods before.

"Aspen, my ankle.." Noel shows it to him. He looks fairly unfazed.

"Looks bad."

"Can you help me somehow? Please?"

Aspen nods. He stands up, stumbling from the numbness induced by sitting on his calves. He lifts up his shirt and begins undoing the safety pins holding his skirt together. Falling away, he wears boxer shorts under it, although he appears to be wearing the shirt as a dress now. He kneels by her ankle, very carefully lifting her calf and placing the skirt under it.

"Oh! Um.. You.. don't need to do that.." Noel wouldn't normally be bothered about such a thing, but judging by the rabbit viscera on their shirt, she had a feeling that this fabric might give her an infection.

"No. I assist."

"Ah.. okay." she is not sure if Aspen meant 'insist' or he was just announcing his help. "If.. um, 'Puppy' is your friend, then why are you helping me?"

Aspen doesn't say anything while wrapping up Noel's ankle. He was very gentle and unexpectedly meticulous, extremely careful not to touch Noel's body, contacting only the parts still covered with the remnants of her sock. At the end, he attempts to tie the fabric together. The tightening of the fabric causes her to whimper again, making Aspen flinch as well. He stops, and instead uses the safety pins from his skirt to close the 'bandage.'

He looks down, twiddling his thumbs. "Don't.. want Puppy to hurt people. But.. only have Puppy. So.." he looks up at Noel to assess her reaction. "Don't want Puppy to hurt.. either.."

Noel didn't know what to say. She didn't know anything about Aspen, except that he lived in the woods, with Puppy, and had no parents. She didn't understand why or how Aspen got this way. She wanted to help him somehow. But she couldn't even stand up. She pats the sand next to him. They both watch the sunrise, together, in the splendid void of silence.

***

Billie had spent the night in the police station. It was far from a comfortable place to sleep, both physically and conceptually. She just wanted this nightmare to end.

When she arrived last night, it was already past 2 AM. She was drained of everything in her. Nothing felt real as she recounted it to the police. It was like she was telling a story, the plot of a cheesy movie or bad fanfiction. And strangely enough, they didn't seem very affected by it either. Except for one officer.

After relaying the incident to them, they allowed her to sleep in the station. While she was asleep, they went to the camp to investigate the incident. They informed her that they found a body-- just one. And they needed her to identify it. The morgue was freezing, and filled with the diffused odor of disinfectants. Everything in the facility appeared chrome-plated: the walls, the instruments, the chambers. Stacked on top of each other, the collective of cold chambers resembled some kind of ghoulish laundromat. But she did not have to go inside.

An unusually thin woman waits for Billie outside. Her face is expressionless. She looked like Billie's own conception of a typical mortician, with her cold, expectant gaze. She seats Billie down in the outer room, in an armchair. It was large and comforting, like being hugged by a big teddy bear. It would have been nice, if not for the context. Billie wondered if they purposefully made this room so cozy. The effect would be better if the actual morgue were not right to the side of them.

"Billie.. Brovchenka. I understand you're probably exhausted, physically and otherwise." her face softens a bit. "So I will try to make this quick, and painless."

Billie wondered if Chester's death was quick and painless.

She holds a photo in her hands. It is opaque, and facing the woman. Billie could not see its image. "This.. may be shocking to see." Both of the women tense up. "The person in this photo suffered a head injury.. So he will be shown with his head looking to the side. You will not see the wound directly.. But there may still be distortions present. Please let me know when you are ready."

Billie took two deep breaths before extending her hand. The woman placed the photo face-down on the table between them, sliding it across. Billie picks it up, prepared for the worst. To her surprise, the photo is not nearly as gruesome as she believed it would be. It was mostly devoid of blood. Aside from his pallor, he appeared about the same as when he was asleep. Billie wasn't sure what to say.

"Yep. That's Chester."

***

A man named Officer O'Ryan would bring her into a similar room at the station. Not necessarily an interrogation room, but not really a waiting room, either. A lounge? That might sound too comfortable. In any case, O'Ryan was the only officer who seemed particularly surprised about what had happened to them. He began by explaining what had happened to Chester.

Blood was found on the inside of the counselor's cabin. A relatively superficial laceration was found on his calf, and the blood in the cabin is thought to be from said cut. This was his first injury. Chester attempted to flee, successfully leaving the cabin. He only made it about 25 yards before the assailant caught up to him. They used a large, bladed object, presumably a machete. Chester was stabbed between the shoulder blades from the back, fully penetrating his body. The blade was then sliced downward, creating a 14-inch incision through the abdomen. Chester either clearly did not die from the injury, or for some reason the assailant needed to ensure his death prior to moving onto the next victim. After withdrawing the weapon, they used it to puncture Chester's skull, which likely killed him instantly.

Noel King was not found at the campsite, dead or alive. There were no signs which would indicate that she was killed.

The killer's body was not recovered. The campsite was surveyed, without success. This was perhaps the most shocking information relayed to her. Billie insisted that she shot the killer three times. She didn't know if the shots to his collarbone and oblique were fatal on their own, but she knew that she shot him in the head. That had to be fatal, right? She remembered him falling to the ground. It was not a hidden area.

O'Ryan was very interested in a description of the killer. Billie had some issues providing that information, given the environmental conditions and the general stress. She did recall that the killer wore several layers of clothing, which was constructed with darkly-colored, loose fabric. Their body form appeared to be male, and was very tall, estimated between six-foot-two and six-foot-six. He wore some type of hood. She remembered that he had a featureless white face and large, black eyes-- she believed he was some sort of non-human creature at the time. It was probably either facial makeup or a mask. The weapon did appear to be a machete.

O'Ryan gave her a cup of coffee. She took it black. It tasted like it was made with instant powder, but she didn't care. It's not like she ever drank it for its taste, anyway.

"So.." he took a sip of his own dark coffee. "What were y'all doin' at Crystal Lake?"

"We.. uh.. Noel, she wanted to do a.. um, a 'documentary' on the place.." Billie sighs. It all felt so silly now. "We just stayed at the camp for a night. We were going to leave today, but.." obviously, things had not gone as any of them had expected.

"An' why'd Miss King wanna do this?"

"It's.. kinda an urban legend online. She thought it'd get her some more.. uh, attention, I guess," Billie wasn't sure how to phrase it. It sounded kind of.. superficial. Maybe it was. "She's an 'influencer,' you know, like a social media celebrity."

"I know what it is," O'Ryan snapped, smirking at her, but sounding slightly offended by the explanation. He looked to be about thirty. Billie didn't mean offense, or to imply that he was old. She just found the term to be itself somewhat absurd. When O'Ryan is done writing, he fidgets with his pen, thinking of where to go from here. Billie thought it odd that he was the only person in the station who seemed at all interested in probing her for answers to what was undoubtedly a very serious crime. He took a deep breath, stretching his arms over his head.

"You didn't see the killer before that moment?"

"No.. nobody like that."

"Did anythin'.. unusual happen before then?"

Billie thought a lot of unusual shit had happened.

"Yeah.. there was this.. person, who we met at the camp. Said they lived there. Er, well, in the woods around there. With their dog."

O'Ryan perked up, instantly looking more alert. "What person?"

"Um.. their name was Aspen. They really looked like they lived in the woods. I always heard the area was abandoned, so.. It was pretty surprising, to me, at least. They were.. pretty weird."

"Weird how?"

"Just.. a very bizarre way of speaking and acting. Didn't always make sense."

"Seem dangerous?"

"No, not really."

"Could they 'ave been the killer?"

"...No, there's no way. They were at least a foot too short, prob'ly more. And small, too. I thought they were a kid at first.."

O'Ryan looked like he didn't like this answer, but was still interested in Aspen. With every second of dead air, Billie became more and more antsy.

"Can.. can I go? I really don't know anything else.. This was all a shock to me."

O'Ryan looked up at her, his chin resting in his palm. His eyes briefly dart to the door before returning to Billie. "Lissen," he started in a hushed voice. "I get it. I do. You wanna get the fuck outta Crystal Lake. But I still gotta solve this case, and I gotta find your friend. I dunno how easy that'll be on my own. I'm prolly gonna need some help. An' I sure ain't gettin' any help from these people," his eyes dart to the windows into the hallways. "You gotta stay if you wanna find your friend."

O'Ryan was right: Billie sure did wanna get the fuck out of Crystal Lake. She had had enough excitement for the rest of her life.

"Why? Why do I have to stay here? I know you're not the only cop here!" Billie snarled at him, feeling her stress rising up to her eyes in the form of tears.

" 'cause these people think this is an open-'n-shut case. They ain't gonna try findin' the real killer." he shrugs, rolling his eyes. "Don't know if their brains are scrambled from superstition 'er if they got some kinda incen'ive t' keep up the act. Either way, I need outside help." His eyes are fixed on hers, locked in a stony glare.

Billie thought he was telling the truth, and that made this all the more painful. It would be easy to fuck off if he were lying. But he didn't have any reason to lie about this. And the other police really did seem uninterested in further investigation of the murder, let alone Noel's disappearance. Billie scraped at the walls of her brain, looking for a reason to leave.

"I don't know anyone here. And I'm a college student. I don't have the money to stay here."

"Hrm. Yeah, that's true." O'Ryan stared off for some time. He looked hesitant as he mulled over the options. "You c'n stay with me. Just don't tell nobody."

Billie stared daggers at him. She didn't appreciate such offers from strange men.

"Oh! Don't even start with that," he growled at her, quickly picking up the implications of her expression. "I got a good wife, thank you very much." His own expression faded to worry as he considered his wife's thoughts on the matter. This would probably become a case of asking for forgiveness rather than permission.

Billie thought over it. It made her nervous to think about. Staying here made it more real. She couldn't begin the process of forgetting it, or moving on. And what about the murderer? What if he started looking for her? To finish the job, or to get revenge? And staying with a cop of all people? Nothing about this situation felt safe.

But.. Billie's conscience refused to let her go. She remembered sleeping just a few feet away from Chester their first night here. She remembered the vitriol she felt for him. That anger that stewed inside her. She wished that he'd be gone soon. She knew it wasn't rational to think that-- it was more her own frustrations with herself than anything Chester had actually done. But even more intense, and more irrational, was the thought that she had somehow caused this to happen through her ill will. Like some evil entity had heard her prayer and decided to fulfill her wish. And.. there was Noel. Billie had thought about abandoning her at the camp. Before she drove to the station, she promised that she would come back to find her. Noel didn't hear it. But if somehow something heard her cursing Chester inside her mind, then maybe that thing heard her promise to Noel, too. Which means she cannot break it. For herself, for Noel, and for whatever else might be listening.

She sighed. O'Ryan's face lights up with an impish grin. He knows that he's won. With Billie's cooperation, he will be able to continue the investigation. Which means this nightmare was far from over.

***

Emmerson wasn't sure what was scarier: the thought of the body getting up and moving on its own, or somebody coming inside and moving the body themself. Staring down at the pool of oxidized blood, he began feeling extremely uncomfortable. Recoiling slightly into himself, he took a few slow, steady steps backwards into his room. His terror slowly turned to anger-- this was his house, goddammit! You shouldn't feel this unsafe in your own home!

He turned back into his room, scanning it once more. He placed one sweaty hand on the closet's handle very carefully, letting it rest there for a second, before swinging it open with dramatic force. His eyes dart around the clothes hanging within. Nope. No monsters in here.

A nightstand sat next to the bed. In its uppermost drawer was a single object, shoved to the back. He bought it for decorative purposes rather than practical ones, but it ended up in this spot nonetheless. His fingertips found the handle, constructed from a polished antler. Drawing the blade, he suddenly feels much more powerful, much more confident in himself. He exits his room again, pressing his back against the wall as he meticulously tip-toed down the stairs, the knife held over his stomach.

_Clink! Clink!_

The sound of glasses being pushed about. Soon followed by the sound of glass shattering against the floor.

Someone was in the house. This home was not large. It was very much built for the occupancy of a single person. The overlook showed the entirety of the living room with only the kitchen obscured under it. Meaning, someone was in the kitchen.

As Emmerson reached the bottom of the stairs, he realized that the living room had been ransacked. It was pretty bad before, but now it appeared that even his piles of books were turned over and spread across the floor, drawers emptied, tables tipped over. He turned the corner around the staircase to hear more glassware being pushed about. He saw it. The cadaver he had brought in last night was walking around, pulling out his drawers, emptying them onto the floor. A bullet wound was still visible in the side of his head, now-dried trails of blood staining his temples. He can't help but gasp at the horrifying sight.

The figure turns sharply, gripping one of Emmerson's kitchen knives. He had put the mask back on and had refastened the middle two buttons of his shirt, but otherwise appeared as he had last night. He stared at Emmerson, knife drawn. Emmerson instinctively held his own knife out in front of him, holding with both hands, perpendicular to his body. His breath was now the only audible sound in the house.

"I.. ah.." he struggles to get the words out. The figure walks towards him, each steady stomp of his boots a portent of Emmerson's demise. He appeared big enough last night, but now, standing upright, the height difference between the two of them was even more dramatic. Emmerson feels small, mousy, useless compared to the behemoth in front of him, causing him to instinctively draw back his arms, the knife held against his chest, now parallel to it. The puny knife would have been as effective as a plastic toy against the monster.

"You c-c-c-can... you c-c-c-c-can.... t-t-take what-t-t-tever you want, jus... pl...ease.." He was now resigned to his fate. He figured this might be the death that he deserved for his own atrocities. _Jesus, God, whoever is listening-- if I deserve any mercy, please let this be quick._

He grabs Emmerson's wrist, almost tight enough to cause pain. Jerking it forward, he examines the knife, still in his hand.

 _Oh, that's right,_ he remembered. _Don't weapons just put you in more danger if you're not confident enough to use them?_ It's funny, the things you think about, right before you're about to die.

He plucked the weapon from Emmerson's grasp with relative ease, still holding the kitchen knife with the same hand. He glances at it before letting it drop to the floor with a pathetic _thump_. He was now leering solely at Emmerson, who watched his eyes narrow through his mask as he inspected his face. Emmerson imagined how afraid he must've looked in this moment, shrinking down even moreso. The monster releases his wrist rather unceremoniously and parts with a final look of indifference. He departs, slamming the front door behind him.

Emmerson can hear songbirds outside. The wind outside can be heard rustling the trees surrounding his home, some of the leaves brushing against the siding. His knees have become gelatinous, giving way beneath him. Slumping against the wall, his entire body folds onto the floor, suddenly overwhelmed with exhaustion. Maybe the cleaning could wait. 


	6. Chapter 6

Aspen had managed to shuttle many of the belongings that the outsiders had left behind. Noel hadn't anticipated anything like this happening, so she still lacked any appropriate medical care as long as she was stranded on the shore. Aspen was unable to find her phone. Noel vaguely remembers having it on her person yesterday while filming. It was likely that she dropped in while she was running from the cabin. Billie had acetaminophen in her bag, which Noel took. It helped only slightly, but it was better than nothing. She also requested Aspen change the bandage around her ankle using one of the clean articles he retrieved from the campsite, and he obliged.

Noel felt filthy. It was questionable how clean the lake water was, but it was the best they could manage. She was very uncomfortable asking Aspen, apparently a teenage boy, to help her bathe and change her clothing. But even though he was rather odd, he didn't seem creepy.. well, in a sexual way, at least. He approached the matter dutifully, although clearly nervous with the situation himself. He was extremely fussy about not touching Noel's body directly, which was difficult to do while he helped her undress. Noel assumed he wanted to avoid coming off as predatory or perverse, but she had assumed some touching would be inevitable, and his strict avoidance of it only seemed to make the matter all the more awkward. But it got done, eventually. Most of her clothing prioritized fashion over function, as she was expecting to be on camera. A nightgown ended up being the easiest article to put on, as she didn't need to move her lower body too much, and needed only minimal help from Aspen, allowing her to avoid exposing herself too much.

"No-el's clothes.." Aspen mused as he packed up her dirty clothing, "..like a.. fairy-tale." Noel laughed. She decided to take it as a compliment. She had a strong preference for pastels, construction details like ruffles and lace, and fabrics like chiffon and silk. The style was distinctive and opinions of it were often polarized. Regardless, it was undeniably characteristic of Noel's own personality: feminine and sweet, sometimes to a fault.

"Thank you, Aspen. You've been very kind," she smiled at him.

Aspen's eyes widened, his mouth open slightly, showing his gapped teeth. Noel is worried she might've said something wrong, somehow.

"Ah! Um, I'm sorry if I--" 

"No." Aspen holds up a hand to her, making her go quiet. He looks around the beach before closing his eyes. He looks distressed, like he is having a headache. Noel is worried about him, but doesn't know if she should speak. She hears the wind pick up slightly, shaking the treetops. It blows through Noel's long, black hair, pleasantly stroking her scalp. It speeds again, and Aspen turns to her, eyes open and frantic.

"Up. Up up!" Aspen goes for Noel's wrist before realizing it was not covered. He scrambled to his feet and pulled his hand into his sleeve before offering it to Noel. She is rightfully confused, looking at her mangled ankle. The wind was getting stronger.

"I don't th--"

"Right now!" Aspen shakes the sleeve at her emphatically. When she continued to stare, he crouched down and pulled at her wrist. Noel was still bewildered, but it was clear that Aspen wanted her to stand up. She was doubtful, but tried it nonetheless, moving her leg with her thigh and hip muscles rather than her calf. Despite her efforts, when she tried to place even a small amount of pressure on her injured foot, she was filled with overwhelming agony, causing her to yelp. Realizing this approach was hopeless, he pulled his other hand into his shirt and scampers behind her. He grabbed her waist with both hands and attempted to both push her forward and pull her up with all of his meager strength. Fortunately, in spite of Aspen's own tiny frame, Noel was both short and very light, and he was able to bring her upright, standing on her one functional foot. At this point, the wind had become unbelievably powerful, sweeping Noel's hair across her face and almost knocking her back to the ground.

Almost unnoticed among the raucous applause of the tree branches was the fatidic sound of dead leaves crunching under heavy footsteps.

"Come on!" Aspen tries to guide Noel further down the shore, in the opposite direction of the noise. As she tries to turn with him, the source of the noise emerges from the forest's edge, some 25 yards away. In a histrionic display, the dead leaves kicked up by his boots gently drift through the air around him, presenting the figure to the terrified woman. With a single swift, mechanical movement, his head turns to the pair, dilated pupils locking on Noel.

She takes in a deep breath, preparing herself to scream before remembering that screaming did little to help the first time. That breath would be better spent some other way. She turns as quickly as she can on her good heel, and Aspen throws an arm around her waist. The two begin to run in unison-- or rather, hobbling is probably more accurate. Aspen tried to quicken their pace, but Noel could not. The sound of the assailant's footsteps became progressively louder as he rapidly approached. Noel's heartbeat became unstable as the harsh steps snuck behind her. In response, she tried once more to speed up, only to be stopped by the violation of a knife. She felt the blade pierce her back, just under the ribcage, on the right side. The only feeling worse than the bodily infiltration was the removal of it. If the knife had to enter her body, she wanted it to stay there. Let it become part of her if it must. But to take it out is to take something from her. She feels a part of her leave as the knife is withdrawn, and hot blood pours down her back.

Noel takes a few steps forward, trying to vain to outrun the monster. The knife entered her back again, this time in her left shoulder blade. He did not pull it out, but his grip on the knife released it from her flesh anyway as she tried to run from him. 

"Water!" Aspen yells as he pushes Noel towards the lake. Noel had no time to consider it either way, and she had lost the ability. Her instincts took over her humanity. She mindlessly hopped into the water, Aspen pushing her down when it reached thigh-level. He pulled her further into the water, holding her as tightly as possible while wading towards the pier. There, at the pier, was a small wooden boat. Aspen pulled her up by the waist, and Noel feebly crawled inside the vessel. Aspen himself crept inside before kicking the adjacent pier, pushing them away.

Noel rolled over inside. She struggled to sit up, barely raising her head enough to see over the ridge. She sees the killer standing there, at the shore where she was stabbed, holding the knife. The waves barely lapped at his boots, apparently not having tried to chase them into the water. But still, he stares out at them, unmoving. Her head rolls over at the sight, looking into the water, where she sees dark red clouds dissipating through the dark waters. Was that.. her own blood? She moans as she returns to her body, becoming a human again. She can feel the blood continue to trickle out of the crevice in her back, and the pain radiated out from it.

Aspen pushed her head down onto the floor of the boat. "Can't. Ar-cher-y." ...Archery? The murderer knew.. archery..? What were the odds? Aspen looked over her, looking vaguely sympathetic while considering some unknown proposition. "No-el? Can talk?"   
Noel groans. She tried to roll over, but it agitated the wound.

"Is okay, No-el. Is okay." he pets the woman's hair. "Protect you. Rest."

Noel closes her eyes. Is that true? Did it matter? There was nothing she could do now. She felt Aspen's hand move from her hair to her face.

"Sleep, No-el. Sleep."

***

He picked up shards of glass off of the floor, piece by piece. One of the dishes broken was a Wedgwood plate: by far the nicest plate he owned. A shard pricked his finger, causing a small drop of blood to ooze out. This nearly pushed him over the edge, his eyes beginning to well up. He tried to shake it off, instead turning his attention to the counter. The knife block caught his eye first, the largest slot of which was now conspicuously empty.

Emmerson groaned. Ironically, it would probably still be used to chop up meat. He just wanted to go back to sleep. He didn't want to think anymore. Return back to bed, let his brain rot for a few hours. Or maybe a few days. But then, even after that, he would still have to look at this disaster downstairs.

There wasn't much else he could do about the whole ordeal, other than clean it up himself. It would've only caused more trouble to go to the police. He had enough skeletons in his own closet (sometimes literally.) But he wondered-- would that man return? And if he did, would he decide to take his life? Emmerson couldn't say for sure, but if that was his intent, then why didn't he just do it? He thought that, perhaps, he remembered that he had helped him last night. Emmerson treated his wounds. Sort of. Thank god the monster didn't know Emmerson was intending to pop open his skull this morning and gut him in the evening if all went well.

Did he really need Emmerson's assistance, though? After all, he only really stitched him up out of obligation. He was certain that those wounds were fatal. It was difficult to tell exactly how far the bullet in his head was embedded from the outside, but a cursory inspection seemed to indicate that it had penetrated quite deep through the center of the brain. It wasn't impossible to survive a gunshot to the head, but usually these shots were situated in the front or back of the brain, rather than through the center. How he would've survived such a direct hit was a mystery.

Truly an intriguing mystery, though. Emmerson would've enjoyed trying to figure out exactly how he was able to survive such a deadly injury. But maybe it's for the best that he didn't.

It was evening by the time Emmerson was done cleaning. And he still hadn't figured out what to do about his ruined things. How does one dispose of something coated in blood? He threw a sheet over the seat and pretended it was no longer there. He couldn't deal with it for the time being.

He now had to lay in bed if he wanted to sit down. It made him feel sleepy, although the events of today probably weren't helping with his energy. His laptop was open in front of him, and a bottle of wine sat between his legs. He held it by the neck and took a swig. Sure, this was not the classiest way to drink wine, but he's an adult. This is the life he's chosen for himself. He let the vile liquid slide down his throat, doing his best not to let it touch his tongue. It tasted more like fruit juice mixed with vodka than actual wine.

There was no dearth of information about the legends of Crystal Lake. Apparently, these had started sometime around 1957, after a young boy drowned, with odd occurrences being sporadically reported over the next two decades. In 1979, the mother of the drowned child committed the famous massacre which led to the camp on the lake being closed. Only a few years later, the camp was reopened, only for another mass killing to take place. These killings were widely believed to be committed by Jason Voorhees, the aforementioned drowned child. These killings would continue over the course of a few days, until Voorhees himself was supposedly killed by a young child in self-defense. Since then, infrequent killings have occurred at the long-abandoned Camp Crystal Lake, and in the absence of a culprit, have been attributed to Voorhees, due to the location, methods of the murders, and targeted demographic.

_Jason, huh? Not exactly a name that evokes fear. Voorhees is a bit more intimidating, though._ Emmerson wonders if he ever ate any of his victims.

It was difficult to separate fact from myth. What did appear to be true is that Jason Voorhees had not truly died in 1957. Apparently, Jason's unusual facial abnormalities had convinced investigators that the mass murderer that plagued Crystal Lake during the mid-1980s was the same boy who had supposedly drowned decades prior. Additionally, Jason possessed supernumerary teeth in childhood, which were also identified on the corpse of the 1980s murderer. His body was never found as a child, so it wasn't necessarily impossible-- but what wasn't clear was how he was able to live to adulthood, especially without being detected.

Records since his supposed death in the mid-1980s were less reliable. Most of these murders were never solved, and in the absence of a confirmed perpetrator, were blamed on the legendary figure. Emmerson thought it was probably more likely that a copycat killer used the legend as a convenient cover for their crimes. There was one confirmed such instance.

Still.. some witnesses claim to have seen Jason Voorhees. More disturbingly, the common description matched that man who Emmerson found last night. Exceptionally tall, well-built, wearing a hockey mask which hides facial abnormalities. But Jason was confirmed dead. If he had not actually died-- as seemed to be the case in 1957-- then he would be an old man by now. And if he did die, then he would only be alive through some supernatural means.

Emmerson was still not convinced. He believed there was a reasonable explanation for everything. Magic, folklore, superstitions, the like, are developed in the absence of proven explanations. Indeed, many well-documented scientific phenomena were once considered 'magic' in various cultural traditions. Even today, many supernatural, paranormal, or neopaganistic beliefs are probably born from a lack of documentation or a scarcity of scientific literature. In other words, the reasonable explanations for such 'magical' beliefs would eventually be elucidated with enough time and research. In this sense, Emmerson did believe that magic was 'real.' He just did not believe that it 'exists.'

What he did know is that some swamp monster of a man had suffered mortal wounds last night and then wrecked havoc on his home this morning. Whether or not that was truly Jason Voorhees remains to be seen, even if the evidence seems to be leaning that way. Either way, he wanted to know how that man survived those wounds, and what implications that may have for his research.

He shut the laptop. That's quite enough for now. His head was beginning to hurt, and his stomach was nauseous from drinking on an empty stomach. Still holding the wine bottle by the neck, he stumbled down the stairs, stopping in the living room briefly to look at the now-covered sofa. It just made him sad to see.

The kitchen was a little better. He had lost a knife and few dishes, but at least most things were still intact. Not that it helped the food situation any. He stared into the near-empty fridge. His slightly-inebriated brain considers drinking a vial of blood, only worsening the churning of his stomach. He shakes off the thought, instead resignedly taking a jar of peanut butter from the fridge and eating it with a spoon. It stuck to the walls of his mouth. He had nothing to wash it down except for the wine. Every bite was suffering.

He moseyed to the window. The sun was beginning to set, toasting the grass outside a lustrous gold. The wind had mostly subsided since this morning, reduced to a mild breeze. The beauty of the summer started to mollify his tense heart. He took another peanut butter-wine shot to make himself feel awful again. He tilted his head back, shuddering as he forced down the potentially poisonous concoction. As he brought his head back down, he saw the glare of an object in the grass, across the road, near the edge of the woods.

He considered going to investigate. Every instinct was telling him not to. The last time he got curious, he ended up dragging a carcass into his living room, only for it to reanimate overnight. But the wine was convincing him otherwise.

"Fuck me," he grumbles, slurping back the last of the bitter fluid. He stepped outside, his heart immediately skipping a beat, but nonetheless carrying on. Wading through the still-wet grass, his ankles moisten with dew. It's cold, but not unpleasantly so.

He looks about the area of tall grass, in which he saw the first glimmer from inside. He pushed aside the blades, looking for anything that might have caused the gleaming. But to no avail-- the grass was just grass. It did not seem to hold any secrets. Emmerson bit his lip. Had he just imagined it? Surely, there's a bit of dew on the grass, and the sun is at full force. Maybe it was just a twinkle from the dew. Yeah.

Turning his head down the road towards Camp Crystal Lake, he scans the surrounding grasses, only to see it again: the same shimmering, just down the road. He chases after it without a second (or first) thought, completely enchanted by its radiance. Sure enough, upon reaching the spot, he has the same experience: the grasses have nothing to offer him. He could almost hear giggling, as if some spying spirit took pleasure in his bewilderment.

He thinks he understood.

Emmerson continues down the road. It was a completely different experience this evening than last night. The uncanny silence of last night's visitation, combined with the incident with his cadaver, was enough for Emmerson to believe that the campsite was a place to avoid, even if not 'cursed.' But today, the forest laughed, it shone, it took him gently by the hand. Whether or not it was escorting him to his own slaughter remained to be seen.

Down the road, he examined the approximate spot where he found the remains last night. There was little indication that a body has been there; presumably, the evidence washed away by the rain. His eyes swept over the vegetation here, lit a bit dimmer deeper in the woods from the trees on either side. Nonetheless, in a patch of wild grasses and cattails, he saw the glint again, just a few yards away. Arriving at it, he realized it is much larger than initially thought, as most had been obscured from afar. Gingerly tugging away the blades of grass that enveloped it, it was revealed to him: a machete. Picking it up, the underside was quite dirty, although the exposed side was cleaned from the rain. It hardly looked new, but still appeared decently maintained. Emmerson ran an index finger down the clean side of the thin blade. The texture of the smooth, cold metal was strangely pleasurable against his fingertip. He shivered to imagine the weapon in the hands of someone more apt than himself.

Of course, the weapon's presence could not have been a coincidence. Emmerson doubted it was here before last night. He had an idea of who its owner may be, and for what purposes they used it. He returned to his house, packing his bag with a select few items from the dissection kit, and preparing his flashlight. Armed with a machete in one hand and a flashlight in the other, he set out again. He stopped just at the edge of the woods, his conscience freezing him in place.

_What are you doing? Are you actually stupid? Did you not just read about a paranormal serial killer for an hour and a half?_ These were all legitimate questions to ask oneself. _Go back inside._ Was also probably a reasonable command. The wind picked up again, ever so slightly. It made the branches of the trees rustle lightly, their seductive whispers invading his body. He can hear it: the chanting, the songs of the forest. He ignored every reasonable part of himself. The forest was calling him.

***

Noel didn't really 'sleep.' It was more like fading in and out of consciousness. When she woke up, her head was on Aspen's lap. His hand was still running through her hair, gently teasing out the knots. And was he.. singing?

_The most secret of shrines shall conceal thee in thy beauty. The most fearful of abominations shall be thy mask and thy veil..._

He was.. pretty bad at it. And the words were.. odd. But it was calming, somehow. The sky was starting to warm, sparkling like gold. How long had it been? Had he been here the whole time?

_...In thy beauty is the original purity of the aesthesis of the hand and the eye. In thy blasphemous iconostasis are the ordeals that exile the impure._

"..A-Aspen?" Noel struggles to get the single word out. He stops singing, looking down at her.

"No-el."

"Why are we here?"

Aspen tilts his head. In a different situation, he probably would've asked for clarification. But he knew that every word Noel spoke had a price right now. "Water? Puppy hates water." he shakes his head. "Can-not even doggy-paddle."

Noel can't tell if it was a joke or not. Aspen doesn't laugh or even smile, but she giggles a bit anyway.

"Will stay here, No-el. Until you are better." he runs his thumb over her cheek. "Stay here. Stay with me. Won't leave."

She tries to bring a hand to him, but she can't. Her hand refuses to lift that high. Aspen probably wouldn't have to stay with her much longer. Everything felt so blurry and fuzzy in her mind. Like it was full of cotton candy. The last couple of days almost didn't feel real. This moment didn't even feel quite real. It was like watching a movie, or looking through someone else's eyes. She barely even had her senses to bring her back into her body-- most of her flesh felt numb, save for her face and parts of her arms.

She thinks of Chester and Billie. Were they alive? The killer was alive, so that meant Chester likely wasn't. Billie could've been: she ran as soon as she could. And she's a tough one. She wouldn't have let herself go down easy. Maybe both of them died. That would explain why the killer then went after her, and why she never saw or heard any sign of them since this morning. Or.. they both could have survived. And just.. left her... No, no. She would not allow herself to think such terrible things about her friends. Especially not right now.

Would she be okay with dying right now? What happens then? She wasn't expecting to figure out what comes right after this. But she didn't know if she really accomplished what she wanted. What did she want, anyway..? Isn't that an unfair question to ask a twenty-year-old? How was she supposed to know? Who was supposed to tell her?

She could feel her chest tighten. She tried to suppress the tears, but a sniffle slipped out, and that led to a sob.

"No-el?" Aspen looks down at her.

"I don't want to.. die." she didn't want to say the word. When she did choke it out, she could no longer hold back her crying. She broke down.

Aspen stared at her, again looking sympathetic. "Why?"

She didn't know how to answer such a question. It seemed so self-explanatory. She could understand why a person might want to die to ease their suffering. But she wasn't _actively_ suffering before all of this. So of course she didn't want to die. How do you put that into words?

"I don't want to.. stop.. existing."

Aspen ponders the idea. He looked like he understood, but didn't agree with the sentiment.

"No-el.. will still be 'real.' Even if.. she does not 'exist.'"

Noel didn't know the exact intention behind those words. But somehow she found some reassurance in it. She could be 'real,' without 'existing.' She has left a mark on this world, even in her very abbreviated life. Thousands of people around the world knew her. They cared about her like any other friend or loved one. It was not necessarily the 'true' image of herself, or her life. It was idealized. It was planned and constructed. But she preferred it that way. And after she died, she knew her memory would continue. Some of them 'true,' and some of them not. Hey, maybe her death will go down as one of the famous, mysterious Crystal Lake murders. She will continue in those stories, and in the minds of everyone who knows those stories.

The thought tasted sweet. She could see that near-future, though it was fuzzy. Her brain was cotton candy.

"Aspen.. can I tell you a secret?" she smiled at him.

"Love secrets." he leaned in, ready for a whisper.

"I always wanted to be.. a princess." she laughs a little at the silly, sickly-sweet thought.

Aspen smiled. It was warm.

"No-el _is_ a princess. She is. A 'real' one." The words were like melted sugar. "Will take No-el. To a special spot." 


	7. Chapter 7

That afternoon, Billie had 'moved in' with O'Ryan. He lived in a perfectly fine little cottage on the side of town opposite Camp Crystal Lake. That much was comforting, at least. Much like O'Ryan himself, the home had an air of effortlessness that, ironically, could only be cultivated through meticulous planning and work. Sunflowers, forget-me-nots, and marigolds dotted the front yard, and a short cedar fence enclosed the property. The abode's exterior was painted a sunny yellow, and a homemade wreath hung on the front door.

Inside, the house seemed even smaller. 'Cozy' would probably be a kind way to put it, although it did strike Billie as if someone within the home had trouble getting rid of things. And it probably wasn't O'Ryan. On that note, Billie got to meet Mrs. O'Ryan, a young, bespectacled woman named Frances. While far from ugly, Billie thought she was surprisingly plain for O'Ryan. Both she and their home appeared more traditional than O'Ryan's own appearance conveyed. Upon entrance, Frances was cleaning, wearing a housedress and embroidered apron. Her small frame combined with the waist-cinching apron brought attention to her rotund belly. It was very obvious that the woman was pregnant.

Her eyes went wide and blank upon seeing her husband arrive home with a woman she had never seen. Billie didn't look like a local: her clothes were very trendy and she wore a masculine hairstyle. O'Ryan quickly pulled her aside to discuss the situation, leaving Billie behind in the kitchen, freshly cleaned with lemon-scented chemicals. Too curious for her own good, she tried to listen in on their conversation, focusing as much as possible on the muffled voices from the other room. But she had no success. She gave up, opting to simply lean against the counter and wait for their return. In the meantime, she pondered the fact that she was probably causing a couple some marital issues right now.

"I don't like having some woman I don't know living in my house!" Frances struggled to simultaneously keep her voice down and express her outrage over the situation.

"I know, I know, honey." O'Ryan tried to assure her that things would be okay. "She's an outsider, and she's a witness. I need to keep 'er around. She was gonna leave if I didn't do somethin'."

Frances was always rather possessive of her husband. A homemaker and soon-to-be mother, much of her life and identity revolved around her relationship to him. If there were some infidelity, it would not only be crushing to their relationship: it would also be a slight on her sense of personhood and her occupation.

"I don't trust her." she squeezes her own hands. "What if she tries something? Look at her, dressed like some _whore_!"

O'Ryan raised an eyebrow. Billie's outfit of a leather bomber jacket, shorts and black pantyhose was not conservative, but it was far from revealing. He loved his wife, but he didn't love her insecurity regarding other women, nor some aspects of her rather staunch traditionalism.

"Just.. relax, honey. Don't think so badly of me. I c'n control myself. And besides.. I don't think that girl is too in'erested in men in th' first place," he speculates.

" _What?_ Are.. are you sure? How can you tell?" Frances now looks concerned for an entirely different reason.

O'Ryan rolls his eyes. "You really should spend a minute outside Crystal Lake sometime," he muttered, knowing his wife scarcely ever left town, and never for more than a couple of days.

"Will you at least tell me what it's about?"

"The camp. We'll talk 'bout it later," Frances' eyes dim, knowing full well that only the most heinous of crimes occurred there. O'Ryan kisses her forehead. He knows that the crime itself is distressing to hear about. But what he's more worried about is the opinions his wife might have about the local legends.

Frances hates that this stranger is in her home, but feels she has no choice but to accept it. She begrudgingly returns to the kitchen, where Billie is waiting in profound discomfort. She could not hear any of the conversation, but she didn't need to to know that Frances was unhappy with it all. Billie was willing to assist Frances with her household work, which Frances was fine with taking advantage of. Billie was mostly relegated to cleaning and menial food preparation tasks: potato peeling, corn shucking, and the like. She thought that Frances would want to converse to ease the tension in the situation, but she remained almost entirely silent, except when asking or instructing Billie to do something. Billie would not force conversation, acknowledging her already precarious situation in the household.

Following dinner, O'Ryan prepared coffee. Both he and Billie took it black again, although Frances liked cream in hers. Billie felt better to have actual coffee rather than the station's instant mix, but she did think it was a bit late in the day for caffeine. She hoped it was not a portent that O'Ryan expected their conversation to extend into the night. She was still exhausted.

He took out a notebook, the same one which he had used at the station to record Billie's statements.He also produced a binder, which Billie had not yet seen. "So, we got a description of the killer, his weapon, his rough location.." he boxed this information in red ink. "We also got a P-O-I, known as 'Aspen.' Ain't heard of anyone by that name 'round here, but I'll do some diggin' tomorrow 'n see what I c'n find. Yer sure they live in the woods?"

Billie isn't exactly sure. "That's what they said.. But I didn't see their house or anything."

O'Ryan had never seen or heard of homes in the forest. He supposed it wasn't impossible, if the house was made of salvaged materials, or if there is an abandoned property. "Well, we should check 'er out." He scribbles his thoughts down violently. "Maybe they live in one a the cabins?"

Billie thought back. "Aspen specifically said.. not at the camp. In the woods. The cabins that we went in, they didn't look like they were being used. They were pretty dusty. Even had some leftover kid's camping paraphernalia in them."

"Didja check 'em all?"

Billie bit her lip. "No.. there was one that we didn't have a chance to get to. It was blocked off. It looked pretty damaged though. I doubt someone could've been living there.."

"I still think we should check 'em out." O'Ryan's tone made it clear that this was non-negotiable. Billie at least hoped that her supposed necessity for this case would give her a bit of control, but apparently O'Ryan was intent on staying in charge. Billie sipped her coffee, leaning back into her chair.

"Now, our biggest problem is we only have one suspect for the mur--"

" _You have a suspect?!_ " Billie almost spat out her coffee.

"Well.. sorta," O'Ryan sits up and clears his throat. For the first time, Billie thinks he looks a bit uncomfortable. "There's a kid who's been up to some suspicious.. business. Emmerson Hayward, lives pretty damn close to the camp. Not far from where you shot the guy."

"What makes him suspicious?"

"Involved in another case regardin' the possible sale of human remains. Real freaky shit."

Billie agreed: that was probably some real freaky shit. But she didn't know what it had to do with murder. "You sure it's connected?"

"I'm.. lookin' into it. There're all kinds a weird things surroundin' the kid. He ain't got no friends 'er family, he just up and moved here. Not even fer work. Went to uni, then moved here. All alone. In a house right next t' the camp. It's real weird.."

"..Is it, really?"

O'Ryan frowned. He clearly didn't appreciate his theories being questioned. "Don't think you know much about Crystal Lake, Billie. People don't just move here."

" _You_ did," Frances finally piped in.

"Well.. that's 'cause you were here, honeybun." O'Ryan smiled at his wife. Billie was feeling a bit out of place all of a sudden. "What I'm sayin' is, this ain't exactly most folks' dream destination. If you move here, there's gotta be a reason. An' Hayward won't tell his."

"Did he try to give one?"

"Yeah.. 'Self-exploration,' or some shit like that," Frances grimaced every time her husband cursed. "I don't buy it. There's no way he went through the trouble of gettin' a whole-ass house without hearin' about the camp. That's enough to scare anyone away.." he glances over at Billie. "Well.. uh.. _almost_ anyone."

"It wasn't my idea."

O'Ryan shrugged. "I don't really care either way... But, anyway. Our biggest problem is findin' a suspect. One who has the motive.."

"What, exactly, is the motive?"

"Took the words right outta my mouth," he scoffed. "It just don't make sense. Not Tilson's murder, and not any of the ones before it."

That seemed true. Chester didn't have any obvious connections to this place, so a personal motive is out of the question. The killer probably chose victims indiscriminately. Of the three of them, Chester was definitely the strongest and most threatening. Noel was short and skinny. She might've been fast, but once you caught her, she had no chance. Billie was taller, but somewhat overweight. She might've been marginally stronger, but she was not very fast. Chester was probably attacked for the sole reason that he was the closest target. Either her or Noel could've been killed had they investigated that spot instead. The thought made her blood run cold.

"Do you think that Chester's killer is the same as the past murders?"

"Hard t' say, since 'e was interrupted during the process." O'Ryan sounded irritated. _Jesus, dude. Sorry for not literally dying._ "But it's pretty similar, from what we did find. Same kinda weapon. Same perp description, too."

"So.. if he didn't have a personal motivation for killing Chester.. Then what? Is he just some sadistic freak, then?"

O'Ryan only looked more frustrated at the proposal. "No.. I don't think so." O'Ryan knew a little about serial killers. Those with sadistic motives killed their victims slowly, and sometimes in unusual or humiliating ways. "He targeted the organs. If 'e wanted to make Tilson suffer, why didn't 'e incapacitate 'em instead? An' then 'e cracked 'is skull open. Brutal, yeah. Cruel, maybe. But if sick pleasure was the goal, then I dunno why he'd kill 'em so quickly.."

Billie supposed that was probably true. Given the killer attacked from below, the cut on Chester's ankle was probably either a shot aimed at a different area, or it was only meant to slow him down for the short-term goal of murdering him. If the killer wanted to incapacitate him, then he could've easily done so after injuring his ankle. But instead he aimed for the vital spots.

"An' that seems consistent with the past murders in the area... Quick, efficient. Seems to wanna kill 'em quickly and move on."

Billie cleared her throat. "What about.. uh.. some kind of, like.. sexual fetish? Like necrophilia?" Frances also cleared her throat, but said nothing. She looked very uncomfortable.

O'Ryan thought about it. That was a possibility. Maybe he wanted to kill his victims quickly for.. other purposes, later. And Billie's gunshots prevented that plan from reaching fruition. It would also explain why some went missing in the forest, but their bodies were never recovered: they may have been taken to a different location after being killed.

"It's.. possible, I s'pose. We've found, er, signs of sexual activity on some of the past corpses. But it was always determined to be with another victim. Never found any, uh, secretions, from unknown individuals, or other signs of sexual trauma or rape. So that theory's still just speculation.."

"Well.. are there any other options? There has to be _some_ reason."

Frances looks ready to speak, but O'Ryan wants to keep her from it.

"Could be a political extremist.. acts of terrorism, y'know?" he suggested it, not sure himself. "Crystal Lake ain't exactly fond of outsiders. Maybe it's meant to be a warning. To stay out."

"Yeah.. I can see that." Billie said. "But not all the bodies turned up, right? Wouldn't a terrorist want to draw attention to their acts? I guess a missing person is still gonna cause a bit of.. uneasiness, but.. I don't know. It just seems like a murder would be much more sensational. So I don't know why they wouldn't show all of them off."

O'Ryan internally admitted that was a good point. But they were rapidly running out of ideas.

"Frances," Billie looked to her, who had been silent for some time. "What do you think?"

"Well.." she looks at her husband. He is wary of what she will say. They know they don't agree on this topic. They tried not to talk about local customs. She didn't like Billie being here, but at least her presence meant that the disagreement probably wouldn't turn into a fight.

"There are legends about the place.. They say some retarded boy drowned there. His mom went crazy from the grief, or something like that. She killed some teenagers who were staying there, before getting killed herself.. So the boy came back to get revenge for his mother's death. And his own death..." She looks between her husband and Billie. "That's.. how the story goes, at least."

"Yeah, I've heard the story. It's why we.. me and my friends.. came here." Billie looked serious. "Do you believe it?" Frances' first instinct was to deny the story. Because of course it was a ridiculous tale. Nobody can just come back from the dead, not without a miracle. She believed in God and angels and demons, but ghosts? Zombies? Those were different things entirely. But Billie's question sounded devoid of judgement. It put her a bit at ease.

"Growing up, it was one of those things, everybody knew," she smiled a bit, remembering her childhood. "Parents told it to their kids. A lot of us assumed it was just a story to scare us, to keep us out of trouble. But every now and again, people really did go missing, or.. you know.." she shifted in her seat a bit. "A lot of folks around here.. don't believe the story. But none of us go in there. Never, no matter what. We don't even consider it. It's just something you don't do."

The answer was indirect, but Billie understood. Of course, if you don't believe that a place isn't haunted by some lethal, supernatural entity, then you shouldn't have an objection to entering that place. Maybe you'll take some precautions in case of very existent, human dangers, such as bringing a weapon. But being opposed to entering under any circumstances means that you _do_ believe it, even when you say you don't. Many of the townspeople were probably aware that believing in the supernatural was irrational. It wasn't science-based. It's silly. Or at the very least, they were aware that that was the perception of general, respectable society. So you deny that you believe it. What you say doesn't change what you truly think and feel.

"It's just a silly story," O'Ryan dismissed it as soon as Frances was finished. She looked hurt by the blatant disregard for the town's cultural traditions. Billie agreed to a certain extent, although she wouldn't put it in such crude terms. Still, she did want to be a bit more considerate as to Frances' and the town's beliefs.

"But there isn't a very good explanation, is there?" Billie retorted. "We haven't come up with one."

O'Ryan clearly did not like being contradicted. He scoffed at her. "Yeah, well, I don't think _magic_ is much better."

"How else would the same person be able to keep up these murders? After all these years?" Frances gets a bit louder, emboldened by Billie's support.

"And Chester was stabbed through the temple. I don't think a geriatric killer would be able to do that." Billie added.

O'Ryan was on the defensive, but he didn't know how to respond. He hated losing control of the narrative. He hated losing control in general. "It.. could be.. multiple killers, over the years. Takin' advantage of these myths."

"All with the same killing style?" Frances snapped. O'Ryan realized he had contradicted himself in his desperation to be right. He had already established at the beginning of the conversation that the consistent killing patterns probably indicated it was the same person. But he didn't want to give up.

"Maybe it's a family thing. The first killer brainwashed their kid into pickin' up on it. The mom was the first, right? Then 'er son continued it. And so on."

"I still think there'd be differences.." Billie interjected.

"I don't think Jason had any kids.." Frances was also skeptical.

The room fell into quietude, its occupants both glancing at each other and refusing to make eye contact. It became more uncomfortable with every passing second. Billie already felt she had caused some animosity between the couple, and she had only made it worse so far.

"I, uh.." Billie starts, needing to ease the tension, but not even sure what she intended to say. "I don't think.. we can say who or what the perpetrator is. We just don't have enough information yet. No good explanation. But we can figure it out. That's all I wanted to get at.." Billie's sentiment was somewhat banal and obvious: yeah, no shit they didn't have an explanation. That's why they were discussing it in the first place. O'Ryan and Frances both looked dissatisfied, and still held on to their own theories. But, she was right that they needed to find out more before they could make any progress.

O'Ryan looked down at his notepad and started scribbling something down. Frances sipped her coffee, appearing upset. This was going to be a long few days for Billie. 

***

Noel wanted to be a princess for as long as she could remember. It was a silly, innocent dream. The dream of a little girl. But it was more than that. It was not so much the aesthetic and the comforts associated with royalty as it was what such status would represent for a woman such as herself.

Noel grew up the oldest of three siblings and only daughter in a working class family. If there was any message which was most clearly imparted by her mother, it was this: you must be strong. It was a message that was commonly told to Black girls. Treated as second-class by a social structure which valued whiteness, and expected to be the emotional and physical caretakers as a wife and mother, Black women had no choice but to be strong in this unjust world. 'Being strong' was not some frivolous phrase of personal empowerment-- it was a quality necessary for survival.

Noel did not have the simple luxury afforded to many of her white, middle-class peers: the luxury of being a child. Noel had responsibilities. It was her job to take care of people. Her little brothers, her father, and practically anyone else who needed her. She had to be emotionally mature and available for others. She was not allowed to take care of herself before taking care of others, but she was still expected to act like she had everything under control, even when she was ready to fall to pieces. She learned how to paint a mask to hide her face. Makeup for her tired eyes and broken spirit.

Noel imagined herself a version of Cinderella. She loved her family, so she didn't really identify with the aspect of having a horrible step-mother and step-sisters. But she was unbelievably hard-working, and her efforts often went unnoticed and unthanked. Her brothers and father simply became accustomed to her caretaking. She imagined a future where her work finally resulted in some reward. She imagined a man, a handsome and well-off man, who would treat her with kindness and gratitude, and grant her a life where _she_ was taken care of. Where _she_ was fawned over and given love. And she'd live happily ever after, until the end.

But even her fantasies were stripped away from her. She remembers one Halloween, when she dressed herself as Cinderella. There was a girl who said something about her. She said she was 'Black Cinderella.' It was true she was Black, and Cinderella always appeared white in her depictions. But it felt like the girl implied some deception. Or some ascribed type of absurdity to the notion of Cinderella being Black. Because _of course_ the princess must be white. Only white girls have the potential luxury of being fawned over, of being loved and appreciated and waited on. Only white girls will have their hard work recognized, let alone have it pay off.

The idea of a working-class woman coming into royalty or pseudo-royalty was a pipe dream, regardless of whether the woman was white or Black or brown. All things considered, an impoverished woman will likely stay impoverished. A princess is something you're born into. The notion of some rich, handsome man coming to bestow upon her the rewards of her hard labor was little more than a coping mechanism for the women who grew up in an unjust world. The women who knew that they shouldn't have to bear this physical and emotional hardship, but who could do nothing about it, and so they deluded themselves into believing that the world _must_ be just, and their work _will_ pay off someday. So long as she holds onto that dream, maybe her work will be tolerable. And the men in her life can continue to benefit off of it. That's the real purpose of the Cinderella story. 

But, regardless of any real or imagined nefarious purposes ascribed to children's fantasies, at least the impoverished white girls could dream of it. Such dreams were not even allowed for girls like Noel. Any Black girl who tried to wish that had to be kidding herself. The implied absurdity of 'Black Cinderella' as uttered by the white girl made that clear. What kind of heartless world does not even allow for dreams? 

If white girls enforced the dream-gatekeeping through malice and exclusion, then the Black girls enforced it upon each other through reality-checking each other. There was no ill-will in these sentiments-- after all, a Black girl must be strong to survive. They wouldn't make it if they sought after the vulnerability and weakness that was attributed by default to white women. But it still hurt Noel. It was still a reminder of everything this world had deprived her of. And instead of letting go of the girlish dream, she simply pushed it down while she tightened her grip.

How does one 'become' a princess in the present-day reality? Well, there aren't many openings out there for being a real one nowadays. It probably wasn't all it was cracked out to be, anyway. But what is it that was so alluring about the concept? The beauty and aesthetics was certainly part of it. Noel had an idea of how to achieve it: she was pretty handy with a hair iron and an eyeshadow palette. Fashion would take a little practice. Color theory was easy, and her rich skin tone contrasted beautifully with pastels. Finding the right balance between socially acceptable and personally satisfying was tricky, but she found that sweet spot. And she trained her eye to the best materials and sturdy construction. She truly did look like a modern-day princess, or a fairy or pixie.

But it wasn't simply a matter of looking the part. It was also acting the part. Noel was strong, and that was a good thing. It's not good to be weak. But it was okay to be vulnerable. At least sometimes. She was okay with portraying herself as a bit less guarded than she truly was. She learned how to ask for help and to express her feelings openly. She was very careful not to undermine her own strength and authority. She wanted to bear responsibility without being weighed down by the pressure. In this way, her dreams guided her into becoming a healthier, more balanced version of herself.

The danger was not derived from her modification of her personality or her appearance. These things were, or least began as, augmentations of the person who she was, moving towards the person that she wanted to become. The damage derived from the most difficult part of her dream: the desire for love and attention. She was perfectly lovely the way she was. She was a beautiful girl with an even more stunning personality. But it's impossible to appeal to everyone, for both justified and unjustified reasons. It's okay to not like someone. It's okay to not be liked. But Noel could not accept that, because a princess is someone who is loved universally, except by the most vile of individuals. She could not endure being disliked, because it might indicate some flaw in her being. So she very carefully tailored herself to be as enchanting as possible.

Unsurprisingly, it tore her apart in all directions. She was too fat and too skinny, she was too sweet and too much of a pushover, she was too niche and too conformist, too slutty and too prudish. She honed in on the things that her fans seemed to enjoy, but could not shake the negativity of detractors. Her uncertainty only worsened when she discovered the existence of forums filled with people who would criticize her for any and all of her choices. They trudged through old social media posts, they recruited people who knew her in childhood and adolescence. They analyzed and disseminated words and actions that she had regretted. They spread rumors, both real and fake. She would be held to account for beliefs she no longer held and sins she never committed. So she no longer let herself be vulnerable. It seemed that those warnings were right: you have to be strong to survive. The dream is unattainable.

She clutched onto the cotton candy with all the strength she had, but it still managed to slip through her fingers. It began to dissolve in her palms. That's the danger of magical childhood dreams. She had willpower and talent. But she was only one woman. She couldn't change what was 'real' all by herself. She pushed the cotton candy as deep as it would go, but this ugly world would not let her dream.

***

A membrane separates the world of the 'real' from the 'existing.' It is semi-permeable. The 'existing' can be 'real,' but the 'real' cannot always be 'existing.' The membrane is most commonly permeated when a death occurs. Every culture and historical period has speculated what lies on the other side. It is impossible to know without crossing it. But reminders of the permeability of that membrane are everywhere. It's in the personless shadow down the hall. It's in births and deaths that correspond with natural phenomena. It's in every oneiric prophecy, no matter how small.

There's also folklore regarding the circumstances in which the barrier can be crossed. There are certain times and places where that separation is thin, and entities may cross over more easily. Samhain, or Halloween, was believed to be the day of the year where that separation was thinnest. The leaves withered and faded, crops died after the harvest. The whole natural world seemed to sleep. There could be no good explanation as to why everything seemed to die simultaneously, except that the bridge became a little easier to cross during this time.

There are also places that are more conducive to crossing. Graveyards and places with abundant remains. Places of significance or catastrophe. Natural landmarks. Perhaps the most famous is the fairy circle. Some believed that these were portals between the two worlds: you could use them to physically travel to, or at least communicate with, the other side. Or, the spirits might decide to forcibly transport those who were foolish enough to step inside. The spirits had a rather mean sense of humor.

Aspen managed to paddle back to the pier, although it took much longer than he would have liked. It was beginning to get dark, and it would be harder to find the 'special spot' in the dark without any 'special' help. He scanned the shoreline before crawling out onto the dock. No sign of Puppy. He probably figured the young woman wouldn't survive the night, and it's looking like he was right. Still, he did like to be present for the final death throes, just to be certain. He would be pretty disgruntled to not have witnessed it.

Getting Noel out of the boat was the hardest part. The rocking of the vessel made it difficult for either of the pair to be steady, and her desensitized legs gave the impression of weightlessness. The only good thing about being numbed was that she could no longer feel the excruciating pain of her mutilated ankle. She looked down at it as Aspen helped her onto the surface. It was disgusting, but she no longer felt sickened by it.

She leaned on the tiny boy, relying on him to get there. Aspen was perfectly happy to take her there. She got used to the feeling of.. not feeling. The movement of her legs became automatic, and she could not feel the crunch of the debris as they crossed into the forested terrain. Aspen grunted every few minutes, shoelessly walking across the littered floor of the woods.

They reached a small clearing which appeared plucked and transposed from some other location. It was enclosed by a circle of stones. Looking closely, between the rocks were mushrooms of the same species. They had flat-topped caps which were cream-colored on the perimeter, slowly creating a gradient of reddish-brown in the center. Noel was vaguely familiar with the concept. Aspen stepped inside first, and then helped her to enter as well. A rush of calm passed over her, the fear moving down her body, leaving through her feet. Aspen stood behind her, placed his hands on both her sides, and lowered her to the forest floor.

The full moon was visible from the opening in the canopy. A few stars had begun to shine through the wispy, grayish-white clouds. Noel wondered if that was heaven.

"No-el. Lucky girl. A full moon to-night." The bandage on Noel's ankle had long since come undone, and its whereabouts unknown. Aspen did his best to clean the wound, pushing and picking at the bits of muscle and skin to make it look at least slightly less morbid. Noel could not feel the manipulation, anyway. He brought her legs together, feet and knees touching. She was still wearing the lace-trimmed, mauve nightgown. The back was bloodstained, but it was not visible when lying on her back. He flounced and pulled the skirt of the dress so that she was completely covered. He positioned her arms to her side, then brought her hands over her chest. As a final touch, he pulled a strand of hair from under her shoulder, letting it rest over her collarbone. He didn't have a rose, but the floral lace still imparted the idea.

The ferryman sat on his knees next to the young woman, and they both listened to the rumble of the forest. He stayed there with her, until she crossed over. 


	8. Chapter 8

The sun has descended. Emmerson had no idea where he was going, and the light from the flashlight extended only a couple of yards.

The underbrush was thick and troublesome to navigate. These woods were apparently not commonly traversed, as there were no definitive paths or worn-down areas which would indicate frequent travel. He felt he was moving much too slow to make any significant progress. He also feared that he may have been walking in circles-- he had no proof of such, but it certainly seemed a possibility. He could only rely on his instincts to guide the way. He felt the woods were directing him, somehow-- could it have only been his imagination? Was it the wine? Today had certainly been a rough one. He thought it possible that the stress was making him hear things which weren't actually there. But in the absence of any alternative, he had no choice but to follow this natural feeling.

He was astounded when he actually reached a shoreline. It was quite an abrupt dropoff, so much so that without a light, he almost certainly would've fallen off of it. He dug his heels into the cliffside, leaned backwards, and let gravity slide him downwards. It was a bit rough, even with the preparation, and he almost ended up slicing his thigh with the machete while going down. It was probably not the best of ideas to wave it around so carelessly.

Here, he exited the forested area. The shore was quite narrow, and certainly couldn't be described as a beach. The water of the lake looked terribly murky in the darkness. He trembled, thinking of the Lovecraftian monstrosities which could be lurking below the surface. Peering down the shore, he can barely see the silhouette of cabins, crowded around an empty pier. He imagined that any other campsite would have a bonfire going on a night like this, with garrulous kids troubling themselves and each other with their adolescent concerns, perhaps indulging themselves in alcohol. He smiled a bit, feeling a little bit nostalgic for being a teenager. But this campsite had no such inhabitants. Even from this distance, it was easy to see it was empty. Empty enough to be threatening to view.

Walking along the shore, Camp Crystal Lake eventually comes into full view. The camp was almost certainly unoccupied now, but signs of recent life were visible. A cooler was left open on the beach next to the pier, as if deserted quickly or unexpectedly. Even a tent was set up nearby, although it had now collapsed somewhat. He climbed up the ridge of the shore, onto the pier. Beyond it to the west was the vast expanse of the lake, reflecting moonlight across its surface. To the east was the settlement of cabins, situated around a totem pole capped with an eagle motif.

 _What exactly am I doing here?_ He thought. He, all of a sudden, felt both very silly, and very unsafe. The whispers of the forest were now ominously quiet, as if to suggest that he no longer required their guidance. He had felt the companionship of something while embarking on his journey, but he now felt harrowingly alone. He wrapped his arms around himself to the best of his ability while still keeping hold on the lamp and machete. He glanced back at the lake, its surface rippling expectantly, but unwilling to speak to him. He turned forward to the camp. It remains dark, still, unmoving.

"J.. J-Jason?" he murmured into the air. The air did not respond.

"Jason!" he cried out. He felt the air pick up slightly, the forest resuming its own murmuring.

" _JASON!_ " he screamed this time. The wind blows against him with staunch aggression. He dug his heels into the pier, remaining sedulous against the elements. Proving his worth.

The air halted, practically instantaneously. His eyes darted around the vacant campsite. But he sees nothing.

He turned to the lake once more. It remains silent and absent.

"..!" Turning back to the campsite, he is met with the look of the cadaver's expressionless eyes, staring down at him through the hockey mask. He thoughtlessly backed away a couple feet.

"J-Jason?" He does not move, nor react to it.

"That is.. you're.. J-J-Jason Voorhees, r-r-right?" He is completely blank. Looking down at him from his incredible height, his stony gaze implies that Emmerson already knows the answer. His eyes break away from Emmerson's own, moving down to the machete in the outsider's hand. He looks significantly more interested in the weapon than in the individual holding it.

"I.. found this.. outside my house. You r-r-remember me, r-r-right, J-Jason..? Fr-r-rom.. last night.." Without looking away from the blade, Jason's hand drifted to his own chest.

"..Yes! I took the bullets out of you. Stitched you up," Emmerson did his best to force a smile, so as not to betray his previous intentions. "This is what you were looking for-or.. r..r.. isn't it..? I hadn't found it... when I saw you this mor-or-rning.." Emmerson held the machete out to him. Jason's eyes shift from it to Emmerson, making the outsider flinch, averting his gaze. Emmerson can hear him stepping closer, each step punctuated by the creak of the pier's boards below. Emmerson dared not look at him as he took the machete, but he can feel Jason's rough skin brush against his own hand as he does so. Emmerson can hear the boards squeak as Jason walks away.

"I need your-r-r help, J-Jason," he managed to squeak out. Jason stops. "I need to look at y.. the.. injur-r-ries. Ther-r-re's something wr-ro--, um, something unique about you, and I need to.. know out how, and why," Emmerson says all of this with his face to the ground. "Please."

He struggled to look up. Emmerson knew he was staring at him. When he did manage to do so, Jason turned away, towards the camp. Emmerson followed.

***

At the end of a dirt road was a dilapidated Victorian-style home. It was modest in size, but Emmerson imagined it would have been a rather cozy place in its peak years. Jason opens the door and waits for Emmerson to enter first. He disliked the idea of Jason walking behind him-- particularly when holding a fucking machete-- but it seems he had no choice. He's immediately agitated when he enters the house. The dust was suspended in thick, stratified layers in the air, making his eyes water. A noisome odor emanated throughout the house, not unlike that of decomposition. Emmerson wanted to leave at once, each breath becoming a progressively arduous task. But he had no choice but to stay.

Straight to the right was a dimly lit kitchen. The walls of this room appeared vaguely damp, small droplets visible on the tile walls. It smelled similar to earth here-- musky, like flourishing lichens or molds. Jason walked past him and opened a drawer, producing a rabbit sporting a single, long incision from below its chin to between the legs. Its organs protruded from the wound, as if intentionally pulled out somewhat. Jason holds it up, inspecting it briefly, as if he wasn't expecting to see it. Emmerson is a little disturbed by the image. He was certainly not the squeamish type, and frequently did similar things for his own work. But somehow it felt completely different in these circumstances. Along with the rabbit, he withdrew a butcher knife, covered in blood. Presumably, the knife used to slaughter the rabbit. He held it out to Emmerson. He realized that it's his own kitchen knife, which Jason had previously taken.

"Wow. Uh.. thanks." Jason nods solemnly. Emmerson realized that Jason probably didn't understand his sardonic tone. Maybe for the best.

"You can keep this. I don't r-r-really need it back," Emmerson assured him. Jason's eyes appear slightly offended and disappointed by the rejection. "Ah.. I will take it," Emmerson carefully deposited the knife into his bag, feeling the still-wet rabbit blood on the blade. He did his best to look okay with it. Jason seems reasonably satisfied.

He exits back the way they came. Left of the entrance was a living room, or, what was left of one. Several holes in the floorboards led him to speculate as to what had occurred here. Remnants of furniture existed, but were non-functioning. A mantel was decorated with miscellaneous objects: a few varieties of dead leaves and pressed flowers, animal bones, polished rocks, sea glass, vintage photographs, buttons, charms, candles, a dog collar, knives, a pocketwatch, and so on. Clearly their arrangement was purposeful, although Emmerson did not understand their connection to each other or to Jason.

"I need to look at your inju-r-r-ries now," he finally piped up, reminding Jason of his original purpose for coming here. He nodded.

He set the lamp on the floor and knelt there. Removing his knapsack, Emmerson fished out his selected instruments: dissection tools, needles, syringes, various aesthetics and sedatives.

"You can.. uh.." Emmerson looked around. With the only light coming from the flashlight, he felt this was a particularly suboptimal place for conducting this type of examination. He assumed it was far from sterile as well. "J-Just.. lay down, I guess.." He felt more like he was about to conduct some satanic ritual than a medical inspection. He considered asking Jason about lighting the candles on the altar-mantel, but decided that would make the entire situation feel even more occult.

"Could you.. uh... take off your shirt?" Jason appeared slightly apprehensive, but complied. Emmerson started with the injury in the pectoral. The wound had healed extremely quickly--no, unnaturally quickly. "A wound like this should take a couple of weeks before it's r-r-ready for stitch r-r-removal," he mumbled, halfway to Jason and halfway to himself.

He popped up from the injury site. "Do you nor-or-ormally heal this fast?" His irises sweep between the lower corners of his vision, the gears turning in his head. He looks away, raising his shoulders vaguely. It is only in this moment that Emmerson realized that Jason had never verbalized anything to him.

"J-Jason.. are you mute?"

His pupils settle on Emmerson's. They somehow look a bit softer than when he first saw them tonight, but he can't read them very well.

"..I see." That would make things more difficult. He moved down and across his body to the flank pad of the oblique. This wound was not as well-healed, but still healed much quicker than one would normally anticipate. Emmerson rubbed his thumb along the scar. Jason's skin was somewhat rough, but the scar lacked the fibrous texture that most significant wounds cause. _What does that mean?_ He pondered the thought, absentmindedly biting a nail before scolding himself. That's not aseptic technique in the least.

The poorer development of the wound on the flank pad seemed to suggest that the sutures played some role in the success, or at least the speed, of the injury's healing. Nonetheless, his sutures were nothing to write home about. In fact, he was uncertain they would even merit a passing grade if under scrutiny. So he was reluctant to give himself too much credit in the matter. Indeed, the sutures couldn't explain how the lesions had already entered the early stages of tissue remodeling after less than 24 hours.

He took out the scissors. "I'm going to r... take out.. the stitches from this one on your chest, okay? It won't h-hurt, but it might cause a bit of an.. uncomfortable sensation." He carefully situated the lower blade under the closest stitch. He clipped it, moving across the tear, breaking each stitch in smooth succession. "Tr-r-y to stay still," Emmerson reminded him, gripping the first stitch with the tweezers. He pulled out each thread, feeling Jason twitch slightly under his arms. "That's all of them," he announced proudly. The scar wasn't perfect, but not as bad as initially thought. Maybe moreso because of Jason's healing than Emmerson's suturing technique, though. "We'll give the oth...er.. one a little bit longer, okay?" Jason nods, somewhat sheepishly.

"I want to keep up with this," he announced authoritatively, having gained some confidence. "I don't know how your body does this, but I want to figur-re it out.. And I have to keep seeing you to do that." Jason looked blank again, but this time tilted his head slightly, eyes narrowing and expanding again. "Tr-r-ry not to die in the meantime. Please." Emmerson smiled slightly. He can't tell if Jason took it seriously or not. "And, uh.. you can put your shirt back on."

Looking down at him, it was almost a bit difficult to believe he was a vicious killer, although he certainly believed it this morning. He just seemed somewhat naive, and oblivious of everything. Emmerson guessed the two aren't mutually exclusive, though. He didn't imagine he'd be making friends with a mythological serial killer, but here he was. This occupation was bound to get him into some seedy business, but this was not quite what he had envisioned. In any case, it was probably best not to get too comfortable with it all.

"I do still need to look at the head wound," Jason immediately recoils. His expression became borderline hostile, and he pressed his hands against his mask.

"I won't take off the mask." Jason side-eyes him, obviously distrustful of his words. Emmerson wasn't quite sure about what the facial deformity was. But it didn't appear to be an acquired characteristic. It was probably a hereditary condition. He hadn't thought too much about the defect, or its connection to the mask. Emmerson had made the assumption that it was to conceal his identity, rather than a personal vulnerability. Emmerson didn't look physically unusual (although perhaps a bit bedraggled), but he could sympathize with Jason's compulsive disguising of his insecurity.

"I won't-- I didn't know before. I won't do it again," he tried to appear as warm as possible. Jason's eyes were terrifying when he was upset. He scans Emmerson, trying to deduce his intentions. With utmost caution, he turns his head to the side, allowing him to see the wound. Emmerson pulled the hood back, revealing a couple layers of gauzy black scarves that covered Jason's head. He unraveled them until he was able to see strands of ginger hair caked with dried blood. Emmerson placed one hand behind his head and the other resting on his neck, his thumb on Jason's jawline. With the scant light, it was practically impossible to see it clearly. He tried manipulating it slightly with his thumb and forefinger, apparently causing some considerable pain. Jason winced, causing Emmerson's hand to slip slightly, pushing one of the belt straps of the mask. It did not come off-- not even slightly. But Jason was startled, reflexively bringing one hand to his mask and using his free arm to swing his elbow towards the threat: Emmerson. Striking his face, the last thing he remembered of that night is sharp pain radiating across his temple, and everything going dark.

***

Aspen was not in the best of moods. They could feel the potential that Noel had. It was so much stronger than Billie's near-sterility. They had hoped she could survive the ankle injury, and that maybe they'd be able to convince Puppy of her hidden talent. It was so rare that an adult had so much untapped ability, and Noel was certainly the strongest Aspen had seen enter Crystal Lake. But it was hopeless. Puppy had already sniffed her out. He already decided her fate, before Aspen had even found her injured on the shore. The watchers must have put her there-- maybe they were even rooting for Aspen this time. But it ended in tragedy anyway. Well, Aspen was sure they weren't too disappointed. The watchers love a good tragedy. It had even begun to rain. Maybe they were crying sweet, delicious tears right now.

Aspen wanted to go home. They weren't sure where Puppy went. He had gone missing last night, never returning home after attacking Chester. Aspen closed up the floorboard of the tunnel and waited in their room for his return. But he didn't come. They were terribly worried about him, fearing he may have left somehow. They searched the campsite and the shore, where they found Noel instead. Obviously, he was just fine. Maybe he returned after all.

The door was left ajar. They poked it open, wiggling their little nose inside and peeking in. The unnatural light of a flashlight shone in the living room, unpleasantly illuminating a strip of the interior. Puppy was there, knelt down, head tilted and staring down at a body. Another one? It wasn't Chester or Billie or Noel. He glanced up and locked eyes with Aspen.

Aspen's heart jumped, and both creatures' eyes lit up before simultaneously fogging over as they remembered they were supposed to be angry with each other.

"Pup!" Aspen marched inside, lips pursed and looking directly at him. They searched for the right words to say, but Puppy beat them to it.

He brought a hand to his chest, moved it back as his thumb and middle finger connected, and extended all his fingers out while his palm faced the ground. **DISLIKE.**

"Puppy _killed_ her!"

**DISLIKE. DISLIKE.**

This was not the first time such a conflict occurred between the two. Obviously, Puppy was going to kill nearly everyone who entered the camp and its forest. Aspen wanted companionship, which was difficult to attain when the other person was fucking dead. Their intentions inherently contradicted each other.

"She was _good!_ "

He brought both fists up, wrists facing upwards. He formed a single 'claw' with each index finger and traced circles in the air. He brought both hands downward, extending the fingers and rubbing them with his thumbs, then flattened one hand and formed a fist with the other. He 'knocked' on the flat palm and then on an invisible door, before turning over the flattened hand and tucking the fist under it. He connected the middle finger and thumb of both hands, then formed 'L' shapes with his middle and index fingers on each hand. **SIN: TRESPASS.**

"Boring sin.." Aspen muttered. Puppy only became angrier from that statement.

**SIN. SIN. SIN.**

It was an old argument, one they'd had many times over. Aspen did not dispute some of the killings. Sometimes because they'd never even met the victims prior to their deaths, and sometimes because they genuinely had no moral qualms with the death itself. The former just led to general weariness regarding how ordinary death became to them by virtue of living with Puppy. The latter was rarer, and was a position held exclusively for when Aspen witnessed the executed commit some heinous crime, such as sexual assault.. although it was not as rare one might hope. Still, Aspen's outlook towards life and death, as well as sin and forgiveness, was much less hardline than Puppy's. Aspen could never fully come to terms with the fact that they lived with an _executioner_. Mostly they just tried to forget about it. So when Puppy killed-- especially when he killed those who Aspen connected to-- it was a bitter reminder that their companion repeatedly committed one of the most serious of crimes without hesitation, or even contemplation. 

But what could Aspen do? Nothing. They hated that Puppy killed. _Hated._ They hated Puppy for it. But it was the essence of his being: his most basal of instincts. It's what his current physicality is based on. And, they also knew that he needed to keep killing in order for Aspen to keep living here, so as to scare away outsiders who might otherwise flood the camp with their presence. And then what? Aspen would have to go live somewhere else, for everyone's safety. Or they could stay at the risk of accidentally killing the camp's unwitting inhabitants. When you look at it that way, maybe Puppy was killing fewer people than Aspen would be killing otherwise.

It seemed no matter what, people had to die in order for them to 'exist.' 

Ultimately, Aspen didn't respond to Puppy's polemic. They would never agree on the fate of trespassers. Every rebuttal would only make Puppy more upset. It would bring them nowhere. It would be a repeat of the very same argument that they had every summer. 

So they just wanted to forget about it. 

Aspen looked down at the body between them, tilting their head.

"Dead?"

Puppy shook his head.

Aspen squinted. "Why?"

This was a suboptimal time to be explaining the situation with the researcher. He tapped his wrist with V-shaped fingers and brought his hands to his shoulders, extending them outwards into fists. He holds up four fingers, thumb tucked into palm, and then creates an 'L' as he moves the hand to his chest. He finishes by tapping the chin of his mask with his middle finger. **DOCTOR HEAL. RETURN FAVOR.**

Return the favoring of healing? Aspen looks down at the unconscious body.

"Eh.."

Puppy lightly sighs. He makes monster-like claws with his fingers, closes them into fists and brings them together in the center of his chest. **ACCIDENT.**

Aspen still does not fully understand the predicament here, but they think they got the basic concept. The body is a doctor who healed him-- maybe last night when he attacked Chester. So Puppy wanted to heal him, too. For some reason. But, apparently, he did not do a very good job. Aspen thinks that Puppy should not attempt to come into physical contact with others, especially when they are vulnerable. He is practically a killing machine. Aspen thinks saying that may hurt his feelings, though.

As it seemed there was a natural lull in the 'conversation,' Puppy returned to his original task. He picked up a rabbit carcass from the floor.. Oh, right. _That_ rabbit carcass. He holds it up to Aspen, tilting his head. Obviously, he had killed it, but why was it here now? Aspen considered explaining themself, but it didn't really matter anymore. They simply shook their head.

"..Don't need."

Puppy nodded at their confirmation. He had figured that was the case-- hoped, at least, since he planned to give it to Emmerson. I mean, it was a perfectly good rabbit. He was going to break it down into furs and bones, but he needed to thank Emmerson somehow for retrieving his machete. And who doesn't want a dead rabbit?

He deposited the corpse into Emmerson's knapsack, along with the kitchen knife he had stolen. Noel's blood was still a bit wet on the blade. Aspen grimaced when they recognized the weapon, but said nothing, instead picking up the flashlight in hopes of shifting their mind to something else. They shone it down at the body on the floor.

At first glance, the 'doctor' appeared to be a woman in her mid-20s. Some closer inspection revealed they were actually a somewhat-androgynous young man. He had shoulder-length, curly blonde hair. It was bleached, evident by the dark hairs growing in at the roots. He wore dark, thick eyeglasses. His skin appeared light, but his features indicated he might have been Middle-Eastern, or at least in part. His hair, his glasses, and some parts of his face seemed.. vaguely familiar, somehow.

The most disturbing element of him was not physical at all. It was his 'aura.' Everyone has one, some are easier to read than others, and some people are better at reading them than others. Aspen, as a sorcerer, was very good at it. They could sense the strength of their individual aethyr, their celestial alignments, their psyche's elemental disposition-- the flavor of the cotton candy, if you will. This man's 'aura' was unlike any person who had ever entered Camp Crystal Lake during Aspen's cohabitation with Puppy. Generally, the strength of a human person's aura can range from completely sterile to almost dangerously fertile. But this man did not fall cleanly along that spectrum. It was almost as if he occupied the entire spectrum, somehow. But that didn't make any sense. A human cannot simultaneously identify with both the material and non-material.. could they? Or did it mean something else entirely?

Aspen's examination was interrupted when Puppy picked the body off the floor and hoisted it over his shoulder. Aspen assumed that he was not going to execute the doctor, although they were not sure exactly where he was going. They just hoped that he wasn't going into town, even if it was nighttime. They sighed as Puppy left without a goodbye. He must've still been moody. He would probably press Aspen for the location of the girl's body later, but Aspen would cross that bridge when they got to it. The sun set a long while ago, and Aspen had not slept alongside Noel. They returned to their room, collapsing onto the bedframe, too tired for anything else. 

***

"Uugh..." He woke up with a disgusting taste in his mouth. Like wine, and... peanut butter?

Ah, right. That would make sense. Still gross, though.

Worse than that was his splitting headache. The light shone in from the window in front of him, burning the inside of his head. He groaned and rolled over-- or rather, he tried to roll over, only to be blocked. He realized that this was not his bed. This was his sofa. The one drenched in Jason's blood. The sheet over it did nothing to mask the smell of iron and decay. Why was he here?

He tried thinking back to yesterday, retracing the day from the beginning-- waking up to find his cadaver alive.. Then to the end of the day, when he was examining Jason's injuries. He tried looking at his head wound, only to get hit in the face. Nothing after that. It must have knocked him out.

Then he must have brought him back here. Damn. The bastard bleeds out on his furniture, and then he makes him sleep on it. Would it really have been that much extra effort to take him upstairs?

Whatever. Really, Emmerson knew he should be thankful. Jason could have easily left him there. And considering what a volatile person Jason appears to be, Emmerson felt a bit lucky to not have gotten worse than a migraine. The knapsack was leaned against the coffee table. Inside, the tools were strewn about, a bit chaotically, almost pricking his finger with a loose scalpel. On the table was the returned kitchen knife, the rabbit blood dried by now. Oh, Jason. Why couldn't you just keep it?

Emmerson stood up, his vision turning fuzzy and increasing the pressure in his head. He waited for it to subside, but migraine was apparently here to stay. He brought a hand to his face, trying to relieve the lightheadedness. The left side of his face, near the temple and cheekbone, feels sore and slightly swollen. He wondered if he now had a bruise where Jason hit him.

He worried that being knocked unconscious until morning could have caused a serious injury. That said, it's also possible that the alcohol and his rather poor health maintenance could have contributed to the extended loss of consciousness as well. Additionally, just because he didn't remember anything past that point of Jason's strike didn't mean that he was necessarily unconscious the entire time. It's possible he woke up at some point-- potentially very soon afterwards-- but returned to sleep shortly thereafter.

He also knew that if anybody tried justifying to him why they weren't going to go to a hospital, he would tell them to shut the hell up and go see a fucking doctor. But he was worried. He would rather avoid it, and risk the potential complications from a possible concussion. What story would he tell the doctor? Right now, he wasn't in the best of spots from a legal standpoint. He didn't know what his presence might lead to in that arena.

..Maybe it was time to finally clean up some of that mess. 


	9. Chapter 9

He had three specimens prior to Jason, all of whom were unclaimed corpses. The first he had purchased from a rather sordid mortician, who was so kind as to exhume the body for him, and guaranteed that the body would not be missed, nor its absence suspected. Unfortunately, the corpse ended up being largely useless for Emmerson's purposes, having been cleaned and embalmed already. He kept a couple of organic samples from the body, as well as removing and preserving a single finger.

The other two were bought from a diener. Unknown Specimen #2 was an elderly woman who likely died of complications related to Alzheimer's disease. Cause of death was not immediately relevant-- what he was interested in was the significant keloid scarring observed on several parts of her body. The diener said that this woman had no spouse or descendants, and was not close to more distant relatives. The transaction occurred smoothly, and the body had minimal degradation.

Unknown Specimen #3 was a middle-aged man who suffered a self-inflicted gunshot wound to the head. The diener discovered something extremely interesting during a preliminary autopsy: the man had been developing cancer in several organs, likely as a result of radiation exposure. This was sustained over at least two decades, during which he worked in the nuclear industry, operating heavy equipment, welding, and similar tasks at a nuclear power plant. Undoubtedly, this was an extremely desirable subject. And the diener again assured him there'd be no issues. The man was divorced, and his only child was an adult, who had moved several states away. Suffering from untreated mental illness, the man was very reclusive, with few contacts.

But upon hearing of her father's untimely death, the man's only daughter returned to her hometown to conduct a proper burial. The diener had prepared for such an instance: he told that young woman that her father requested cremation of his body in his will, and that local law allowed for this process to be carried out after a set time limit had passed on claiming the corpse. The woman was (understandably) outraged by this. As it turns out, there was such a law in this locality-- apparently in part instituted because of the large number of unidentified bodies that crop up.

But the woman would not back down so easily to being denied the opportunity to bid her father a final goodbye. She filed an official request to see the documents pertaining to the body's cremation. This was extremely problematic-- the diener, being effectively an assistant to the morgue's primary physician, was not authorized to make such an executive decision. Even the physician himself would need to file paperwork and receive official notarization for the cremation of an unclaimed corpse. The paperwork for the cremation was, of course, glaringly absent. This was malpractice, at the very least.

Investigation revealed that the diener may have been involved in various illicit activities related to the sale of human bodies, organs, and controlled medical substances. The man's phone records showed that he had contacted numerous known persons of disrepute. One of his records showed that he contacted someone at odd hours and in cryptic, vaguely-worded messages seemingly related to the sale of an unspecified object. The person had no criminal record, and seemed a relatively normal, recent university graduate. But the messages were suspicious enough to prompt further investigation. That person was Emmerson Hayward.

He was mostly unconcerned when he hadn't heard from the diener in some time. After all, Emmerson told him that you weren't interested in just any body. He only wanted those that pertained to his work into regeneration. He imagined they were few and far between. His anxiety only heightened when, early one Sunday morning, about a month ago, a cop knocked on his door.

"Hello.. sir or ma'am," he greeted Emmerson. He understood that living so far from people meant his upkeep had taken a hit, but was he really that androgynous? He felt a bit embarrassed, which immediately channeled into dislike for the officer. He had to admit, though, that the man was rather striking: somewhat tall stature, warm, clear skin, and sharp features. "I'm Officer O'Ryan. I got a few questions that I wanna ask you. You mind comin' down to the station?"

Emmerson certainly did mind. He had seen the movies. Being shoved into a cramped metal room, accosted with bright lights, interrogated and tortured into confessing every crime under the sun. Nuh-uh, not gonna happen. But his dad had taught him two things about talking to cops. Firstly, be nice. Their badges give them fat egos, and they get upset when you don't feed into it.

"I.. I r-r-really cannot, I have, uh, eh, something import-t-t-tant sc-c-cheduled soon," he lied. "But I... uh.. would be very happy t-t-to answer your q-quest-tions... here."

The officer looked a bit displeased. His hazel eyes looked Emmerson up and down, trying to ascertain whether he was lying and failing miserably, or if this was simply a flaw in his demeanor more generally. He was unhappy, but accepted the proposal to converse within the house. Emmerson guided him inside, putting on the kettle to make him some tea. He felt like his heart was about to explode. And for god's sake, don't open the fridge while he's here!

"I would offer you some food," Emmerson squeaks out with unexpected clarity, setting down the chamomile, "but I must-t-t ad-d-dmit-t, I've been a bit-t lazy with... th-the grocery shopping... Living this far from t-town.. It is just-t-t such a hassle." Emmerson laughed bashfully. O'Ryan smiles, though it appears insincere.

"You're a recent college graduate, yeah? What's your degree in?"

"Ah, yes.. biomedical engineering," he replied. _Had he run a background check? How did he know this? Was your name on the alumni website now? Just calm down! The interrogation hasn't even started yet!_

"Sounds like an impressive program," he commends Emmerson, but his voice is deadpan. He sounded more like he was speaking out of obligation than genuinity. "And whaddya do now?"

"Huh?.. What d-do I.. d-d-do?" he can feel sweat forming on his face.

O'Ryan looks up from a long sip of the tisane. "Yer job," he clarified, poker-faced.

"...A-ah. R-right, of c-c-course," straightening his back, Emmerson tried to appear assertive. "C-currently I'm unemployed.. Enjoying my t-t-time free of responsib-bilit-t-ies for a litt-le while.."

"Why'dju come to Crystal Lake fer that?"

"What-t-t bett-t-ter place is th-there...? Living on my own on a serene lak-k-ke, next-t t-to a forest-t.. it sounds p-pretty romant-tic, doesn't it..? Plent-ty of t-time and space to figure everyth-thing out..."

"Well, hope i's been everything y'were expectin'," he takes his final drink. "Thanks for the tea. I wanted to ask," he sets the cup down on the saucer, eliciting an audible _clink!_ "Do y'know a man by the name of David Gerulaitis? He works... well, worked, as a local mortuary assistant."

"Yes, I knew him.. s-sort of."

"And what's yer relationship?"

"Um.. we were.. a casual th-th-thing, you know," Emmerson chuckled, terrified.

"You were in a romantic relationship with 'em?"

"Er.. uh, th-that might be put-t-ting it a lit..lit.. kinda st-t-rongly, but, um.. yeah, someth-thing like th-that."

O'Ryan narrowed his eyes at him. That might explain the calls at odd hours, but the record of communication was rather sterile for a romantic or sexual relationship, even a casual one. He also knew that Emmerson didn't even attempt to contact David for at least several weeks now.

"Didju ever buy anything from David?"

Emmerson's first thought was to say marijuana, and he almost did, before he remembered that that was illegal, too. What do people buy that's legal?! Think of something! Anything!

"Uh.. yeah, I was b-buying.. antiques."

"..Antiques?" he looked simultaneously surprised and unimpressed.

"Yeah," Emmerson simpered. He was, apparently, an unemployed biomedical engineer in his early 20s, with a fondness for buying antiques from his mortuary assistant friend-with-benefits in the dead of night. Of course.

"Right. An' where're these antiques?" O'Ryan asked.

"Oh, you know.." he gestured both vaguely and theatrically, "around.."

"Mmhm." O'Ryan stared at him, clearly not believing a single goddamn word he just said. "And can I look," he gesticulates, "around? For these antiques?"

His heart skips. He decided to utilize the second rule his father taught him about talking to cops.

"Yeah, you c-can," he said, standing up, gesturing to the door, "when you have a warrant."

***

Nearly a month had passed since Officer O'Ryan first visited. Emmerson was beginning to get antsy, especially with having Jason around to complicate everything. How long does it take to get a warrant? It seems damn-near instantaneous on TV. Were they actually going to get one? Maybe the sale of human remains really isn't that big of a deal. _Come on, it's not like they're using their body anymore!_ He just wanted confirmation either way. He hated this uncertainty. He hated not knowing what to expect. But there's no way to get that confirmation, so it's better to presume the affirmative.

He threw on a sweatshirt and sweatpants. He wished he had time to shower and change out of yesterday's clothes, but his anxiety said this needed to be addressed now. It's searingly hot outside. Walking around to the back of the house, he nudged the compost box. Under it was an iron hatch, the handle a bit rusty.

This home was first built during the Cold War, and its original inhabitant was a single man convinced that the world would eventually be consumed in nuclear fire. He had this underground shelter built for his home, to protect himself from the fallout. He had decided to repurpose it. Sliding down the dark, narrow tunnel, his feet randomly poked along the wall until it found a rung. He descended, feeling the cold, rusted iron against his bare fingers, already biting enough to send shots of pain through his wrists. He tried his best to just keep moving.

At the bottom, he flipped on an industrial light-switch. The garishly bright fluorescent bulbs lit up, one by one, flickering slightly, dully lighting the concrete walls. This was the morgue, or the 'icebox,' so to speak. It would've been impossible to stuff entire corpses into the fridge, and he'd personally rather not acquire his meals from the same place he keeps the dead bodies. So he kept this bunker below freezing to store the bodies with minimal deterioration. Shiny, metal autopsy tables lined up, equipped with sinks, some of which contained his tools: hacksaws, forceps, and so on. Each cadaver had a table of its own covered with its own sheet. He identified them by the pattern of the sheet: Unknown Specimen #1 had a simple, boring white sheet. #2 had a green tartan sheet, and #3 an adorable pink Hello Kitty sheet.

His other materials were down here as well. The home was too small to hold it all, so the icebox functionally became his workspace. It would be a hassle to have to shuttle between the house and the bunker all of the time, anyway. His microscope, testing kits, papers and files were all at his desk. Various chemicals and reagents in industrial containers. An unlabeled box contained jars and bags of the previously prepared samples from the specimens-- skin grafts, tissue pieces, and the like. His 'office' was never going to be a cozy place, so he didn't complain. This was the best he could do under these circumstances. It'd be nice if it didn't reek of preservatives, though. 

He stood in front of the corpses. "...What am I gonna do?" he asked. They don't respond.

How do people normally dispose of bodies? Well, they normally don't. Most people never encounter this problem. Emmerson's best bet would be to dispose of them chemically. But he didn't have the type of acids that would be able to effectively break down an entire cadaver. At least, not in the correct concentration and quantity. He could simply bury the bodies, but where? Not in the backyard, that's for sure. In fact, he was doubtful that his spaghetti arms would even be able to carry one of these bodies up the ladder. Before, the mortician and the diener had helped him.

There was Jason. Jason could help him. Hell, he could probably carry all of them up on his own. But he wasn't here. And Emmerson didn't know if or when he'd come back-- he vaguely remembered telling him last night that he wanted to see him again, but he didn't specify when or where. And in Emmerson's current condition, he wasn't sure if he could even make another excursion to Camp Crystal Lake to find Jason.

He let out an exasperated sigh. His head still pounded. And he doubted the next few hours would help much. He retrieved a tarp from under one of the autopsy tables, and a hacksaw from one of the sinks. This was going to be a long day.

***

Even if it was uncomfortable, yesterday's conversation seemed to be good for Billie and Frances' relationship. She hadn't been purposefully trying to appeal to her; in actuality, she didn't believe in the local legends. But it felt too insensitive to step all over someone's beliefs like that. In the long run, it might've been a bad move, considering O'Ryan was probably the more powerful of the two, what with being a cop. But at least for now, Frances seemed to accept her new housemate a little more.

In fact, she even gave Billie some of her clothes to wear, as she had left her belongings at the camp. That said, Frances' clothes were far from anything Billie would choose for herself. They also fit rather awkwardly, as Frances was shorter and thinner than she was. Still, she wasn't going to be picky. At least they were clean.

Billie did hope to prod her for a bit more information. Even if she didn't believe in the local folklore, such traditions are usually based on truth. They just become distorted and exaggerated over time as the story is told and re-told, sometimes misremembered, sometimes purposefully twisted for effect. She wasn't feeling her best: exhaustion still plagued her, unsurprisingly. But she also felt she might be developing a cold.

She approached Frances that morning, shortly after O'Ryan left for the station. He promised he'd be back before too long to update about anything found on 'Aspen,' but there was no indication when that might be.

She planned on beginning the conversation by asking her about her pregnancy. But then she thought, Jesus Christ, what if she's not pregnant? She stood there, in the kitchen, just staring at her belly, until Frances looked at her. Well, she had no choice, now.

"So, how far along are you?"

"Five months," Frances replied, only halfway paying attention to Billie's presence.

"Wow, that's so exciting," Billie said without an ounce of excitement. She couldn't imagine a worse nightmare than being pregnant. "Do you know if it's a boy or a girl yet?"

"No, we want it to be a surprise," she said, smiling a little. "I think I'd like a boy first, but Carl doesn't seem to have a preference.."

_Carl..?_ Oh, right-- O'Ryan's first name. It didn't suit him at all.

"I think that's the way to go," Billie said. "You have names picked out?"

"Yes.. a few of each gender.." she scrunched her nose slightly. "I would like Carl Jr. for a son, but he's not so fond of the idea.

_A wise man._ It turns out Billie _can_ imagine a worse nightmare than being pregnant: living your whole life with the name 'Carl.' 'Carl Jr.' is even worse. Imagine being synonymous with a hamburger restaurant.

"Hm. Well, I'm sure you'll find one you both love."

Frances nodded, a bit half-heartedly.

"Hey, so, uh.." Billie cleared her throat. "I was hoping to talk a little more about.. What we discussed last night. If you don't mind, of course."

Frances shook her head. "No, I don't. Shoot."

Billie wasn't sure where to start. "I guess.. do you know if there's.. uh.." _Truth to the story?_ She might not like that. "..the killer's identity.. did he.. does he.. Have a motive?"

"They say that he kills to avenge his mother.. You know about his mother?"

"Vaguely.."

Frances nods. "She killed a bunch of teenagers, couple decades after her son died.." she shrugs, turning away from the stove, a rag in her hand. "There weren't any killings before that. Then they started again after the camp re-opened. They haven't stopped since.. So it seems like the best guess."

Revenge, huh? So the first set of killings by the mother definitely had _something_ to do with it.

"And then.. The killer a couple years later. That was definitely Jason.. uh.. Vortivask?"

"Voorhees. And yes." she wipes her forehead. "They buried him and everything.. killings never stopped, though."

What about the hereditary theory..? If Jason wanted revenge for his mother, then maybe he had a child.. And that child is getting revenge for one or both of them. That's assuming it really was Jason. They said it was confirmed: apparently he had some kind of deformity. But if it was hereditary, then maybe that was a different Voorhees? How good were they at body identification back then? Or.. Jason was found dead, but were they really sure that he was the killer? Could it have been set up somehow..?

"What about the victims? Does he have a preference?"

"Teenagers and young adults, mostly. Few older folks, but not too many. Never kids, though," she shrugs, chuckling a little sadly. "I guess even killers have lines they won't cross."

"Any other similarities?"

She shook her head. "Just that they came to Crystal Lake, obviously. Most of them were outsiders, but not all. Probably just because locals take it seriously... usually."

At the cue, the mechanical sound of the door unlocking rings into the kitchen, and soon O'Ryan entered. He looks at the two women, a little surprised that she seemed to have been talking.

"Ladies," he smiles and greets them. Neither seem to appreciate the manner, although probably for different reasons. He approaches Billie.

"So I did a lil' diggin'," he started. "Turns out there isn't an 'Aspen' 'round here, but there _was_ one a lil' while back in a nearby town." O'Ryan produced a folded photo from his pocket and handed it to Billie. The girl in the photo looked cautious of whoever was behind the camera, and her fidgeting fingers further conveyed her suspicion. She had a small, upturned nose, thin black eyes, pursed lips, and a plump, round face. She looked younger, but she was the spitting image of Aspen.

"Aspen McAskill. She was just nine, and an autistic orphan. Ran away from foster care.. or that's what they thought, anyway. Figured she'd come back after a couple days at most, but she never did." he sighs, looking a little distressed by the whole idea. "Mighta been kidnapped after all. More time that passes, less likely you'll find a missin' person. That was ten years ago. She'd be nineteen now.."

"Yeah. That's definitely Aspen." Billie nodded as she handed the photo back to him.

"She said she lives in the forest?"

"Yeah... with a dog."

O'Ryan doesn't look pleased with this idea. "So.. in a house? Or just.." he shook his head. Part of him thought it was ridiculous that a person could live in the forest without a proper shelter for an entire decade. Another part didn't want to believe that such a young girl would have to be subject to that, on top of everything else when living on her own. "Did she seem like.. she was bein' held there? Didju see anyone else?"

"No.. nobody else. And.. they seemed pretty carefree.." Billie thought back to the nymphish creature and their uncomfortable demeanor. "Well.. uh.. as far as being in the forest and at the camp, I mean. I don't think they talked to people very much."

"Yeah, yer prolly right 'bout that.. Not like too many people go there, 'n when they do, they don't stay too long.."

Billie and O'Ryan both went quiet. She felt like they were thinking the same obvious question.

"So.. how does Aspen survive there..?"

"Could she be..?"   
"No.. there's no way." Billie shook her head. "Aspen is like, three feet tall.. well, not literally. More like.. five feet. But the killer was way, way bigger. And besides.." Billie thought back to the first time she saw Aspen. "If they wanted to kill me, they could've. Easy. They had a knife when I met them, and we were alone." Billie thought back to her conversation with Frances this morning. "You said they're an orphan? Could they be related to the Voorhees? Could they be.. Jason's descendent?"

O'Ryan briefly considered it. "She wasn't an orphan 'til the year she disappeared. Her biological parents died that year, both of 'em. Guess I can't say if she's related to the Voorhees somehow, though." He shrugged.

"They died? How?"   
"I know what yer thinkin'. Didn't say in the missin' person's report, but if they were slaughtered, I think that info woulda been included. Seems pertinent," he smiles. "It is weird they died at the same time, though. Maybe it was an accident."

"Maybe.. What do you think the odds are that they were kidnapped as a child?"

O'Ryan bites his lip. "Hard t' say. The fact she never showed up again is a pretty decent indicator. She coulda found someone who took 'er in, but any responsible person woulda reported it." He goes to sip his coffee before realizing he was out. " 'course, if she were kidnapped, we'd need to figure out why.."

"Got any ideas?"

He scoffs. "I can tell you it wouldn't be for anything good. But it's interestin'.. that the murderer never killed a kid. Whaddya think that means?"

Billie sighs. "No idea.."

Frances refills their coffee as they think it over. Billie feels a little awkward, like she's a maid or something.

"We could find everythin' out real easy, y'know." He gives Billie a sly smile. She hates it. She just stares with a worried glare, waiting for him to explain. "I'm sayin' we go find the girl."

"No! Absolutely not!" Frances snarls at him, joining the conversation for the first time.

"Oh, honey," he rolls his eyes. "Y'really think I can't take care of myself?"

"It has _nothing_ to do with that!" her voice breaks slightly. Billie worries she might be becoming seriously upset.

"A man was killed there. A man I knew. He wasn't small or weak, either. You really think that's a good idea?" Billie tries to reason with him from a perspective he might sympathize with.

"Billie, I have a gun."

"Yeah, so did I!" she raises her voice, though involuntarily. "I shot that fucker three times and apparently he just walked off the bullet wounds!"

O'Ryan raised an eyebrow. Clearly, he wasn't believing her story. At least not this part of the story. "Lissen, I get it. It was dark. You were stressed. Maybe you shot him once. But not three times."

"I know I shot him in the head." Billie could feel herself becoming more irritated with O'Ryan with every moment that passed.

"C'mon. Don't forget: we haven't found yer friend yet."

Billie felt her face turn hot. She knew what he was doing, and he knew what he was doing. Billie wanted so badly to knock the shit-eating grin off his face. But unfortunately, he was right: they hadn't found Noel yet. Billie didn't know if she was alive or dead. Once again, she didn't have any choice.

***

Classical scientific views constructed living beings as existing on a hierarchy, organized by (perceived) complexity. Humans, of course, were found at the very top, lording ourselves over the rest of nature. This is not entirely unwarranted; after all, humans have radically altered the landscape of the earth, have driven entire species to extinction, and have attempted to control the elements themselves. Perhaps the eulogizing of humanity was in part due to our own hubris in addition to our accomplishments (or atrocities). But humans are far from the perfect species.

Despite the incredible complexity of the human body, some of the Earth's simplest organisms possess the most astounding of abilities. The planarian, a species of flatworm, has the ability to regenerate its entirety from less than a hundredth of its original form. Among some non-mammalian animals, such as reptiles and amphibians which are able to "drop" tails or limbs, many are able to conduct similar processes of regeneration. But mammals have lost most of their regeneration function. The human fetus is able to perform regeneration in its early development, re-growing their limbs when severed. But this ability is quickly lost as development progresses.

If the human fetus can perform regeneration, then the potential is still there. It is present, somewhere, in the genome of every human. Emmerson wanted to figure out why this ability is turned off, and how to turn it back on. Unfortunately, the study is tricky business-- stem cell research, of which this topic relies, is controversial, and funding is scarce. He required the bodies of humans in order to study the progression of wound healing. If he could determine how to induce the regeneration process instead of typical scar formation, it could change medical practice as we know it.

That is his dream. He tried to pursue it through all official channels. But he was discouraged at every step of the way. There isn't enough money. It'd be a legal nightmare to work with embryos and living humans. It's a fantasy: we haven't even identified the genes which control tissue regeneration, let alone understand how reactivation might affect other bodily processes. The message was clear: give up. Aim lower, pick something more realistic. Wait for the politicians to sort out the funding and legal issues. Let the people become more progressive first. Wait for some of the smaller steps to be resolved. You'll go insane trying to work through the official pathways. Well, isn't the answer obvious? Why work through the official pathways at all?

He stomped down on Specimen #1's abdomen and pull up a leg. He brought the hacksaw to the knee and began cutting.

He got the idea from a book on the history of anatomy. Apparently, early pioneering anatomists were mostly private doctors who bought the bodies of patients from their families. Some others were academics, who dissected the bodies of executed foreign criminals. These limitations were not because of an antiquated medieval taboo against the cutting of a body, mind you. Sometimes nobles even paid doctors to open their deceased loved ones to determine their cause of death. But this was because these procedures involved evisceration in the strictest sense-- the opening of the abdominal cavity to examine (and sometimes remove) the internal organs. The opening could be closed, and the person's external being remained intact.

Despite the cold, beads of sweat were dripping down his forehead. With a hand on Specimen #2's crown, he pulled the head back, granting a better view of the cadaver's neck. He groaned as he adjusted his grip on the saw's handle.

It was the job of the academics that was more controversial, because their work extended beyond evisceration into total deconstruction of the body. The separation of the entire body into its constituent parts, much like a butcher organizing cuts of meat. Hence why the academics were permitted to operate only on executed criminals. And only foreign ones at that: imagine the political spectacle of a noble person's relative being disemboweled and butchered before the public. Yes, this practice was reserved only for rare cases, because it destroyed the body's personhood. The person which once inhabited the physical figure was reduced into chunks of flesh and organs and viscera, barely recognizable from a slaughtered pig or cow.

Emmerson was beginning to understand.

How much time had passed? The concrete walls of the bunker withheld the information. He tried to dry his eyes with his sleeves, almost bopping himself on the nose with the saw. He really isn't very good about weapon safety.

Spread out on the tarp were the results of his work. Six arms, lined up side-by-side, three decapitated heads. Six legs split in half to form twelve pieces. Three torsos, quartered. The sternums were hard to get through. They no longer looked like people. Pieces of humans, yes, but not people. There are lots of folks who have no problem seeing dead animals, but who cringe at the sight of human gore. Because we want to see people, not humans. We reflect ourselves in each other, we love, we hate, we form bonds and we let go. We want to see something special in our fellow men, and in ourselves. The complete desecration of a body has forever been an uncomfortable display because it destroys the sanctity of the person's life, their experiences, dreams, ideas, relationships. It forces us to reflect on ourselves, to remind us that we are mortal. And maybe not so special.

He just stared at the pieces. What now? He can probably carry all of them out, a little at a time. He can't dispose of them near the house-- even in small portions, it's too risky. The compost bin? _No! That's so cliche. That's the first place I'd check if I were a cop._ Maybe just burying them throughout the forest, then. His previous trip to the camp seemed to imply that it was seldom visited. Maybe he could get away with throwing some in the lake, provided he weighed them down. Burn some? It'd be an awful smell.

He looked down at the people he destroyed. _I'm sorry._

_Skreeeak---_? He heard a heavy, laborious step above him. Somebody's in the house. _Shit! Did I forget to lock the door? Who could it be?_ His head pulsates considering the horrifying possibility that it could be that infuriatingly sexy cop. What a supreme bit of bad luck, that a cop might decide to revisit while disposing of the bodies. _How long does desecration of a corpse get you in prison? How about three counts?_ No, no, no! He was not ready to give up yet. Not after everything he'd done. It wasn't necessarily the cop, right? Yeah, it doesn't have to be. It could be a thief. Or it could be Jason! Please, please God, please let it be the mass murderer!

He can't bring anything upstairs yet. His sweats were black, but he worried they might contribute to an overall smell of death. He quickly took them off, still wearing last night's clothes underneath. He reckoned he still smelled revolting, but as long as it wasn't like blood and formaldehyde, he was okay with it. As he took off the sweats, he felt the crisp air of the icebox nip at his calves. It almost feels kinda good.

He rushed up the ladder, his fight-or-flight response preventing him from noticing the bitter pinching of the icy metal. He nearly bonked his head on the bunker hatch, but managed to pop it open and skitter out like an exposed insect. The hot air rushed over his chilly skin, practically giving him thermal whiplash. To his surprise, it was nearly dark by now. He very cautiously scooted around the side of the house to the front. He saw the door-- he had locked it. The lock was destroyed. He peeked around the corner. Jason was inside, turned away from him, holding his machete, and glancing around, dumbfounded.

He felt a flood of relief. _Thank you, God_ , he took a minute to praise the lord. His extreme fear melted away into absolute serenity. He was so happy to see Jason, Emmerson almost wanted to give him a hug. Almost. As he considered it, he remembered that he should be fucking pissed.

"H-hey, assh-h-hole!" he yelled. Jason swings around to him, startled. His apprehension palliates upon seeing the scientist. "Wh-wh-what the f-fuck, dude?" Emmerson walked up to him, completely ignoring his machete. It was not the scariest thing he'd seen today. Sometimes, the undead killer was just the cherry on top of all the other bullshit he had to deal with. "F-first, you smash my f-face in last night," pointing to the side of his bruised cheek, "and then, you break my goddamn door?!"

Jason looks down at his feet, ashamed. His head still bowed, he looked at Emmerson through the holes of his mask, giving his eyes an innocent puppydog sort of effect.

"Oh, that is so unf-f-fair," he lamented.

Jason apparently isn't sure what he meant, not purposefully trying to look so pathetic. "Just sit down and take off-f your shirt. You better pray to the F-father, the Son, and the H-h-holy Spirit that those wounds look good." Or what? Emmerson didn't say. Probably because he knew that Jason could very easily kill him, even without his blade. But right now he just wanted to bully him.

Although, now that he thought about it, the whole idea was kind of funny. He imagined Jason, very casually walking to his door with machete in tow, knocking on his door, waiting for him to answer the door. The image of it was too much. Emmerson tried to suppress a laugh, but a snort slipped out anyway. Jason was looking at him sympathetically. Emmerson had truly lost it.

"Sorry, Jason.. I shouldn't h-hav-ve been so mean," he apologized, still giggling a bit. "You do owe me a new door, though."

He looked at the wound under the collarbone. It's barely visible. The tiny pinpricks of the sutures are gone, leaving only a very faint impression of the original injury. Emmerson ran his finger over it. It is vaguely fibrotic, but not terribly. Even so, Jason was shot less than two days ago. He should be incapacitated still.

"Incredible," he murmured to himself. Emmerson looked up at Jason. "You're really incredible, Jason." Jason huffs lightly, looking proud of himself and reveling in the praise, although perhaps not entirely sure what he was being complimented on.

The other wound was ready to stitch removal. Much like the pectoral injury, Emmerson snipped the connections and carefully pulled the threads out. The flank pad is a more sensitive area-- Emmerson can feel him squirm with each thread's withdrawal.

"Okay, all done," he patted Jason. The oblique injury was not as far along as the other, but he felt confident that it would heal in the same way. There's no reason it wouldn't, at least, so long as it isn't infected or anything. "You can put your shirt back on.. I guess," Emmerson tells him.

Jason's clothes were practically rags. Emmerson had never seen fabric so tattered and destroyed. You'd think that he'd take clothes off a victim somewhere down the line, but given his size, maybe it was a rarity to find a suitable candidate. And he didn't seem the type to wear a crop top.

If there's any silver lining to today, it's Jason's wound progression. But it was a bit perplexing. Emmerson was under the impression that if the pathway for regeneration were activated, it would proceed in place of typical scar formation. But the characteristic fibrous tissue of a scar was clearly present on Jason's body, albeit rather muted. Emmerson assumed that meant both pathways were active, and that they might somehow work in tandem rather than mutually exclusive actions. Which would make sense, from a biological standpoint-- the earlier stages of external scar formation provide the advantage of preventing bacterial infection from entering the body through the unintended opening. Although, it does make things a little complic--

_Ugh.._ He unexpectedly felt faint. Speckles form in the center of his vision, and a high-pitched ringing resonated between his ears.

"I think you gave me a c-c-conc-cussion," he groaned.

Jason's eyes pan over. Maybe he didn't know that word.

"I think.. um.. you h-hurt me pretty bad," he amended himself. Jason nods, understanding it that time, but still appears unsure of what to do or how to react. Obviously that'd be the case, Emmerson thought. Healing doesn't exactly seem like Jason's forte.

He was still afraid to go to a doctor. He would be until those bits and pieces were out of his basement. But he was so tired. He couldn't do it today. What if he fell asleep and didn't wake up? His friends and family don't know where he moved to. He told them he was going to go on a journey of self-discovery after he graduated. They didn't buy it, and Emmerson expected that, but he didn't want to involve them in all of this. How long would it be until they found out what happened to him? And what would they think, when it came to light that he was hiding dead bodies below his house?

This was all just too much. Leaning up against the wall, he slid to the floor, exhausted. He closed his eyes. His anxiety prevented him from falling asleep-- though just barely. He wrapped his arms around his stomach, simulating a hug.

Hearing a couple of light footsteps, Emmerson cracked open his eyes. Jason was kneeling down, looking at him.

"Thank you f-f-for being c-cooperative, Jason," he tried to be kind, despite the weight pressing down on his chest. Jason nods, then tilts his head, looking a bit sympathetic. Emmerson considered telling Jason about his circumstances. Why he's doing all of this, why he's feeling the way he is. It'd be nice to vent, even just a little bit.

"I'm... really worried about my f-friends and f-family, Jason," Emmerson told him. "I gave them up f-for a little while.. I gave them up because.. there was something I really wanted. I don't want to be doing.. this. But I think I h-have to."

Jason appears a little spacey. Like he's looking through Emmerson. He wasn't sure if Jason was listening, or if he was thinking about something.

"But at least you're here, Jason. I think you're what I've been looking for. I think you could be the key."


	10. Chapter 10

Aspen waited in the tunnels for Puppy to come home. They had both been in a sour mood since yesterday, after Noel crossed over. Aspen had never meant to kill anyone, but they could imagine a situation in which killing could be justified. Rarely, if ever, did Puppy's kills qualify as justified under Aspen's standards. But even so, they hated feeling so hostile towards Puppy. Because it was simply in Puppy's nature. It was hard to hate him, even when you consider his abhorrent crimes. He was not like human killers, who were able to plan and execute extreme acts of cruelty in spite of their ability to understand and empathize with others. Puppy's ability to identify with others was hardly more developed than that of a child. He operated entirely on instinct when it came to murder, making it near-impossible to convince him out of a hunt. In this sense, he was less like a murderer and more like a large predator animal.

Aspen thinks they could've loved Noel. Almost definitely. What's not to love? She was sweet and beautiful and she loved cotton candy.But even if Puppy hadn't killed her, it would've been impossible. She wouldn't have ever agreed to stay here forever. Nobody does. Everyone leaves. They always leave. Why do they always leave? Why doesn't anyone stay here? Don't they know Aspen has nobody?

It would be better to just forget about it, forget about it, forget about it, forget about it, forget about it, forget about it, forget about it, forget about it, forget about it, forget about it, forget about it, forget about it, forget about it, forget about it, forget about it, forget about it, forget about it, forget about it, forget about it, forget about it, forget about it, forget about it, forget about it, forget about it, forget about it, forget about it, forget about it, forget about it, forget about it, forget about it, forget abou--

 _Creak---!_ Oh! Puppy is home! The sound of slow, intentional footsteps upstairs was clearly audible. Aspen waited there, very patiently, legs crossed atop the bedframe. They listen intently to each step, knowing the exact location of their Puppydog from the volume, direction, and tone. The oil lamp was burning, although Aspen wasn't sure what time it was. After noon but before midnight. It was always dark in the tunnels, though.

Right on time, a hooded figure popped into the doorway, carrying a lamp of his own. He looked at Aspen, eyes blank. Both of their eyes were blank. They just stared at each other.

Aspen knew this game. They weren't sure if the other person was still angry. So they just stared, waiting for some sign.

"Pup." _Forget about it._

He did not respond. It wasn't fair. He had the upper hand in this game by virtue of being unable to speak.

"Still mad, Pup?" _Forget about it._

He averted his gaze, looking downward, as if considering it. He closed his eyes and shook his head.

_Forgotten._

Aspen gave a broad smile and extended their arms, as if gesturing for a hug. To Aspen's unsurprised disappointment, he instead settles on the floor in front of the bedframe and begins sharpening some weapons. The machete was still damaged from a couple nights ago. Aspen laid down and rolled over, so that they were right next to him, looking over his shoulder at what he was doing.

"Puppy."

He looks over and tilts his head.

"Hug?"

Aspen can barely see the furrowing of his brow under his mask. It hurt their feelings a little bit, but it was always the way he was. He never liked physical touch. It made him a bit uncomfortable. He only enjoyed physicality which could be performed at a reasonable distance-- such as head pats and scritches. Still, he knows Aspen didn't have many people they could be close to. In fact, he was the only one who Aspen considered safe to touch. So he nodded, granting permission to the anxious, touch-starved creature.

Aspen inhales sharply when Puppy nods, a smile again forming across their face. They wrap their arms around his shoulders, squeezing him as tightly as they can. They nuzzle their face into his scarf-covered neck, breathing deep, practically tasting his scent. He sets down the machete, bringing the freed hand up to Aspen's arm which still embraced him, squeezing them gently. It made Aspen feel light, and their heart fluttered. He knew how much Aspen cared about even the smallest bits of affection. He understood it to a certain degree, even if he did not share the same desire.

Jason and Aspen could coexist within Crystal Lake. Aspen was the first who could claim long-term compatibility with Jason on any level, and the number of physically 'real' humanoids who Aspen could safely interact with were few and far between. But they were not bound together, and as such, issues were destined to arise within their partnership. Fundamentally, differences were rooted in the fact that Aspen 'existed,' while Jason was 'real.' Jason's physicality was constrained by his own departure, and thus he did not age or develop in a material sense. Aspen 'existed,' so they were susceptible to the appetites intrinsic to fleshliness.

In the most elementary forms, Aspen required sleep, food, water, and so on. They could become sick, and fatigued beyond a mental sense. But more than that was the matter of social establishment and growth. Jason, as a nonexistent 'real' entity, could not attain desires beyond that which he had already attained during 'existence.' Aspen could not discard their desire for recognition from another. They could not surrender their craving to be cared for. Neither Aspen nor Jason were actualized in their personhood, but Aspen 'existed,' so they could still have the potential to become a fully-realized being.

Despite the theoretical possibility, the actual achievement was much more difficult. How does Aspen become actualized when they could not interact with others, except at the risk of that person's death? Aspen could only be with those who were exclusively 'real,' because such individuals couldn't die in a physical sense. So Aspen could only be actualized through Jason.

The relationship between the two did not fall into one discrete categorization. They had no parents, so they were each other's parents. They were each other's family. They were each other's friends, and lovers, and enemies, because fulfillment of these relationships could only come from each other. And while mutualistic, the social connection would always be higher stakes for the one who 'exists.'

Of particular hardship was the passion which developed with Aspen's transition into adolescence and adulthood. Even putting aside his ideological sexual aversion, Jason could not share the same lusts as his counterpart: he was an adult only physically, remaining functionally a child in terms of mental and emotional maturity. But knowing of his anti-sexuality did very little to mitigate the sexual devotion that Aspen felt for him. Aspen desired touch, any touch, which they had been deprived of, and which Jason seemed largely ambivalent to, even in a strictly platonic sense. They became accustomed to the physical 'attention' forcibly bestowed upon Jason's victims by him-- that is, acts of (usually lethal) violence. In conjunction with the awareness that Jason's executions were an expression of his fervor for his mother, Aspen began to develop the fetishistic desire for carnality of _any_ kind.

The barrier between sex and violence was already thin by virtue of sharing the site of the body. Sometimes that boundary was crossed purposefully, sometimes accidentally. Sometimes the boundary line was blurred. Without very explicit description, it could be impossible to differentiate the difference between the two concepts. They wanted to be penetrated, homogenize their fluids and secretions, become soaked in it, have screams forced out of them. Get fucked and fucked up, knocked up and knocked around. Aspen desired Jason's body, and they yearned to sacrifice their own body upon his reposoir.

But Aspen could never vocalize these things. They already knew that he would be unable to provide them any comfort, emotional or physical. So they didn't try to initiate anything. It would be scary. Rejection is very scary. Aspen wanted to believe that Puppy loved them with the same adoration, so they would not pursue anything that could challenge that notion. It was safer to delude themself than to potentially face reality. Or maybe, if they believed in that love strongly enough, then it would manifest. Aspen was a magician, after all.

Aspen watched him as he returned to the machete, arms still loosely resting atop his shoulders. He dragged the machete across a whetstone, creating a striking noise that could only be produced through a bladed weapon. It sent a chill down Aspen's back, imagining the feeling of the knife's tip perforating their body. Aspen had felt the caress of other knives, but never that desired machete. They were sure it would be a sensation like no other. They wanted it so badly. They squeezing together their thighs imagining it, gripping Puppy tighter. He seemed oblivious to his friend's perverse fantasies.

"Puppydog. Love my Puppy. Would do anything for Puppy. Anything." Aspen pet his covered head, leaning their face into him. Their other arm laid across his shoulder and neck, hugging him as tightly as their feeble arm would allow. "Always think about Puppy." Yes, Aspen thought about him pushing his dirty fingers down their throat until they vomited. They thought about him choking them until they passed out.

It was probably nighttime by now. Aspen wasn't sure if Puppy had plans to go hunting tonight. But he was at least marginally receptive to Aspen's affection, so he wasn't exclusively focused on the knife right now. Aspen _could_ sneak out while Puppy was partially occupied, satisfying their libidinous thoughts with some depraved act of onanism. It wouldn't be the first time. But his lukewarm concentration on his weapon meant he might be open to a shift in his attention. And maybe it would help to forget about it.

"Pup. Play with me?" Aspen begged. 'Play with me' was a very vague term between the two, which meant little more than to bring their undivided attention to each other.

Puppy set down the knife for a second time, gazing straight ahead into nowhere in particular. Without looking back at them, he nods and waits for explanation or instruction.

Aspen is elated, unable to hold back their smile. They skitter off of the bedframe and motion for Puppy to sit there instead. He cocks his head at them, but Aspen does not respond. They are too busy rummaging through the innumerable objects on the floor. They push about in a corner filled with mostly Aspen's own scavenged things, reaching towards the very bottom, as if some object was purposefully hidden there. They produced a small, rather nondescript circular item.

In Aspen's hand was a circular case which resembled a thick compact mirror. They carefully popped the latch and presented the open container to Puppy. Inside were sewing needles and pins of variable length and thickness. They sat on his lap, knees on either side of his right leg. Puppy tenses as Aspen lowered themself on him, apparently not used to this degree of closeness between the two. He can smell Aspen. It's like musky, decaying earth. 

"Here, Pup." Aspen set the case next to the two of them, still open. "Take one."

Puppy ran a finger across the flat needles. They were cold and smelled slightly of alcohol. The shift caused them to clink together with a light tintinnabulation. He chooses a relatively thin and small pin: a beading needle. Aspen unbuttons their shirt, letting it hang off their tiny body before it falls to the floor. They lift the tank that was below their shirt, exposing their chest and stomach. Puppy tilted his head as he watched Aspen's hands move up their body, needle still between his fingers. The image of Aspen undressing was not new, but this felt.. different. Like a spectacle.

"Run it.. over me.." His eyes squint at Aspen beneath the mask, apprehensive. They guide his hand to their body, running the needle over their stomach, tracing their navel, moving upward to the center of their chest. Aspen lets go, signaling to him to continue independently. He drags it over their collarbone before moving back downward over Aspen's chest, and finally to the lowest parts of their midriff. He can feel their body shiver as the sharp point stimulates the flesh beneath it. The sensation is neither entirely painful nor entirely pleasurable: it is a feeling that could not be achieved any other way.

"Push it in." Puppy stops, making eye contact for confirmation. Sure enough, Aspen waits patiently to receive him. He doesn't understand the purpose of the act. A needle isn't going to _kill_ Aspen, or at least, not in most places. But won't it hurt? Why would they want that?

He steadies his hand, positioning the needle just below Aspen's navel. He slowly pushes it halfway inside.

"Curved one," Aspen paws at his shoulder. "Now a curved one."

He obeys, picking a thick, parenthesis-shaped needle. It was tricky to find a suitable spot for this one. He pinches the top of the navel, pushing the pin entirely through the skin. Aspen whimpers as the needle exits. He again looks to them for approval.

"Keep going." Their breath was heavy and laboured. He continues, slowly inserting the needles into his friend's body. Aspen closed their eyes, heightening their pleasure from the anticipation of discovering the needle's thickness and location only after its penetration. The pins were placed up and down their midsection. One was stuck into their rib, the tip scraping the bone. Aspen tried to remove their shorts, but was prevented by the pins in their abdominal muscles. After watching Aspen struggle, Puppy slips the garment off for them.

"Here, too." Aspen brushes their hands across the pelvic area. Again, Puppy began embedding the pins into them: one diagonally inward from each of Aspen's hipbones. One needle in the center of the mons pubis, two running diagonally on either side, all pointing down and inwards. At the end, there were twenty total needles inside Aspen's body. They tried to raise their arms, but could not. The needles prevented nearly any movement.

"Pull.. them out." Starting from the very top, Puppy did just that, steadily, one at a time. Each time a needle was removed, a spurt of blood would gush out, running down, forming dark red streams across their pasty skin. The final needles removed were in the groin, the blood trailing into the wiry pillow of hair between Aspen's legs. Little drops trickled down onto Pup's lap, staining his clothes. Aspen, free of their restraints, grabbed his wrist with unexpected force, dragging his cold hand across their body, smearing the fresh, hot blood across them, like paint on canvas.

Aspen was mesmerized by the sight of his handprints in their blood. Seeing their own freshly-spilled blood stain his palms was too erotic. They wanted so badly to kiss him. Hell, even if they could only kiss his mask, they would accept that. But Aspen couldn't. Instead, they extend their hand, a little unsteady from the excitement and the blood loss. They offer their fingers to his face, and he leans into it, nuzzling their hand, completely unaware of the deviant sexual act he was just engaged in.

Puppy love.

***

The entire ride to Camp Crystal Lake was silent. Billie had little desire to talk with O'Ryan, and he didn't seem to care either way himself. It was beginning to become apparent that O'Ryan didn't care very much about Billie or Noel or anyone else in this case other than himself. Indeed, he was willing to manipulate Billie's emotional vulnerability regarding her missing friend to get his way. He changed her story of what happened the night of Chester's murder to better suit his own narrative. And worse, she was beginning to believe that maybe he was right about it. It was definitely not an environment conducive to accurate shooting, and she was stressed beyond belief. It was entirely possible that she misinterpreted what happened.. And above all, the killer's body was gone, less than an hour after she initially shot him. No human could just shake off three bullet wounds.

She just hoped that they survived the night.

Billie's own memories replayed as they drove down the beaten dirt road to the camp. She remembers how obnoxious Chester was being in the backseat, and Noel to an extent, too. She was so annoyed with them. So ready to get away from them. Now Chester is dead, and Noel might be, too. If she had known it would turn out like this, then she would've reveled in those moments. She would've appreciated the joy that the two were feeling then. As is, one of her last memories of her closest friend could be of feeling bitter and pissed off, and it pained Billie to think about. She knew that, to a certain extent, it was an irrational thought. It's okay to be irritated, and there's no way she could've anticipated that all of this would happen. But irrational thoughts were often easier to hold on to than rational ones.

O'Ryan pulled up to the edge of the tall grass that separated the road and the campsite. It was approximately the location where Billie had also parked, and where she had shot Chester's killer. Her muscles tightened thinking of it, momentarily locking her in place.

"You ready?" O'Ryan's words brought her out of the fog of her memories. Right. She had no time to think about the past when she had a present issue to deal with. She wanted to get this over with as quickly as possible.

Exiting the car, Billie was accosted by the unpleasantly muggy air that saturated the campsite. In her anxiety, it made it even harder for her to breathe. She could not help but look in the direction of where she had shot the murderer: obviously, there was no body to be found. A patch did look slightly flattened compared to the rest of the field. She shuddered to think about it, dew sticking to her face.

"Any idea where t' start?" O'Ryan was deadpan, either oblivious or unconcerned regarding Billie's nerves. Still, it did bring her back to reality again. It was a legitimate question, which Billie, unfortunately, was unsure of how to answer. The campsite itself was only four moderately-sized cabins, but the field area was larger. The biggest issue was the forest: Aspen specifically said that that's where they live. But Billie was rejected entrance into their home, or even to see the outside of it. So she had no idea where it could be. The forest extended all around the perimeter of Crystal Lake, and then some. Surveying it would be an arduous task in itself, let alone in the dead of night with only two people.

"No.." she peered around the camp. It was the same eerie quietude she remembered. "Maybe.. Start with the areas where I saw them. The shore, and the cabins."

"Sounds good. I'll take the shore, you take the cabins?"

"No." Billie didn't need any time to answer. "We are staying together."

O'Ryan's eyebrows raise as he inhales, slow but deep. He looks ready to object, but instead sighs sharply and shrugs. "As you wish."

Both had their own flashlight and gun. That was probably prudent, although the ray produced by O'Ryan's flashlight flittered and jumped in Billie's periphery, repeatedly putting her on edge. The two walked down the shore of the lake, absently waving around their lights at the sand, the surface of the water, and the ridge that marked the start of the grass. They did not speak, either because they were too nervous, too focused, or simply had no desire. Billie felt like she was on some kind of awful, awkward date.

Despite her emotional and mental strain, she was rather surprised how physically well she was feeling. Earlier today, she was very tired, and by the afternoon, was beginning to feel cold-like symptoms. Not surprising, given the trauma probably took a toll on her overall health. But she was dreading coming to Camp Crystal Lake again. She still hated being here, and yet.. the closer they got to the camp, the better her body began to feel. It was almost like the place had a revitalizing effect on her. Maybe because of the fight-or-flight response.

"Look at that," O'Ryan had his flashlight pointed to the ledge, where there were several familiar-looking bags. Of course they were familiar-- one of them was hers. Obviously someone brought them over to the shore. She knelt down to inspect them, O'Ryan still holding the flashlight to illuminate the scene. It looked like someone had gone through her things: a bottle of acetaminophen had been opened, and pills spilled inside. However, nothing seemed like it was taken. Nothing important, at least.

She opened Noel's bag and cringed at the contents. At the very top were poorly-folded, pale-colored clothes. Billie couldn't remember what Noel was wearing that night they were attacked. But these were probably it, evident by the copious and clearly visible dirt on all of them. It was clear that Noel changed clothes after that attack. Did that mean.. she was alive? Well.. no. Not necessarily. Somebody could have found her and taken her clothes off. But more perplexing was: why do that? And why right here? Billie thought about the possibilities.

Assuming she was alive, she would have gone back to the cabin, retrieved everyone's bags, and then changed. Firstly, would Noel really have gone back to the cabin, and for essentially just clothes? It seemed a ridiculous idea. Noel isn't stupid and she was clearly terrified. There was no good reason to return to the cabin. Secondly, why everyone's bags? She had to have known it was mostly just clothes and miscellaneous items, and it's not like either Billie or Chester's clothes would have fit her, anyway. And most importantly: why on the shore? Is this where she went after they got separated? It wasn't impossible, but they weren't that far from where the car would've been. The terrain could have prevented Billie from seeing her, but would she not have heard anything at all? The gunshots, Billie's scream? You'd think she would've followed that noise, or at least cried out for her. The location would also probably have been scouted by police very early that morning. Did she only go there after that..?

..And then.. assuming she was.. not alive. She still doesn't understand why a killer would bring Noel to the shore. If he's been committing murders at this camp, then he must have some sort of base or home nearby. That had to be a more secure place to take a body. The shore was so vulnerable. As far as changing clothes.. she didn't know why they'd need all of the bags. But it wasn't hard to imagine that the killer would have undressed her body for.. coital purposes. The thought made Billie feel a mix of disgust and rage. But it still didn't make sense to do it here, and then apparently move the body somewhere else afterwards.

She heard O'Ryan's soles shift in the moistened sand, and the glare of the flashlight rushed to some point down the shore. He tapped her shoulder with his free hand.

"Hey," he muttered. Billie looked in the direction of the light. At the end of a spotlight, a small, pale, frizzy-headed figure brought their arms up, shielding their face from the harsh light. Billie had no doubt who it was. She scrambled to her feet and shuffled down the shore as quickly as the sand would allow, O'Ryan slowly inching closer, flashlight still locked on them. As she approached Aspen, her excitement faded into horror. Aspen's once-white tank top was completely red, and their shorts were likewise splotched with large, crimson stains. The blood was smeared across their exposed collarbone and neck, and thin trails descended down their legs.

"Bill-ee."


	11. Chapter 11

Emmerson always thought he'd had a fairly boring life. His family was neither rich nor poor. They had enough money to buy each other decent gifts on Christmas, but not enough money to completely relax. His parents could've been better. They could've been worse. He wanted to love them, but he was at odds with the strict religious morals they demanded of him. His parents sometimes fought, but they always made up in the end. He remembered once, they played a cruel joke on him. They told him that they were getting a divorce, and they asked him which parent he wanted to stay with.

"Mom," he said. He didn't even need to think about it. He wouldn't have been able to fully articulate why, at the time.

When he was eleven, the question came again. But this time it was not a joke. He knew they had been having issues, but they always made up. They didn't know it was that serious. He had to make a decision, and again, he knew he wanted to stay with his mother. His younger brother and sister were also going to live with her. She seemed to.. well, have it together a little better than him, although what that meant exactly was a little vague.

It was not until his father approached him that he began to reconsider that decision. His father told him that he wanted them to live together. He said he didn't know what he'd do on his own. He said he'd be lost. That he wouldn't make it. He degraded himself, saying that he was a failure and a bad father and an even worse husband. Emmerson didn't want his dad to feel that way, even if he made bad choices. He talked with his mother, and she was wary about letting him live with his father. But in the end, he let him make his own decision, for better or worse.

Something she said once: "Sometimes, it feels like I have four children."

His father's drinking had been an issue for as long as Emmerson could remember, and it was the subject of several of his parents' fights. He would go out and drink. He would drink at home, or at friends' houses. Emmerson learnt very early that his father could not be trusted to moderate himself, and he was given the unspoken role of regulating his drinking for him. He had to be fixated on his drinking, keeping track of how many beers he'd had, and the relative strengths of his drinks, so that the 12-year-old could tell his father when he'd had enough. When he crossed that line, Emmerson would bring him water before bed, and be prepared to help him through his hangover in the morning, for as long as he still had them. At fifteen, Emmerson got his driving permit, and he was his father's designated driver from that point forward. One night, he was not there. His father got a felony DUI that night. Emmerson had to begin driving him to work before and after school.

And when his father drank, he could become emotional. He would apologize for his mistakes, for breaking up his marriage through infidelity, and for being a bad father. He would always apologize, and Emmerson was obligated to accept those apologies, or to assure him that he was being too hard on himself. Still, it never led to any changes. His father would continue with all of the things he said he was ashamed of.

Emmerson got his first job at sixteen, out of necessity. His father was not very responsible with money. So it became Emmerson's job to manage the finances, and to keep track of his dad's spending. What Emmerson made at his job would go to paying for his car's gasoline. The rest would go towards rent, bills, and groceries. He worked late nights, but it was okay. He had a study hall that he could sleep in.

Shortly before Emmerson graduated high school, his father found a woman whom he loved. She was nice, he supposed. But she also seemed like a.. a mess. They got married fairly quickly into their relationship, with much celebration, although issues would arise very soon thereafter. Nobody in the family was surprised that the couple relied on Emmie to act as their marriage counselor. It always went the same way: a nondescript text or call from his father about how much he loved him and missed him and how he didn't have anyone else in the world. Within 15 minutes Emmerson would be at their house, getting the story from one person, then the other, and then translating their stories and feelings into something more productive for the other person to hear, everyone sitting down together to talk it over with Emmie as the moderator. He'd give his prescription for the couple and the process would repeat every month.

He was only freed of these responsibilities when he went away to university, but he found himself carrying out the same acts with friends and acquaintances there. He was usually the one monitoring others; not out of some desire to enforce rules or laws, but rather to ensure their own safety. Emmerson was not convinced that others would be able to adequately take care of themselves. Sometimes he was right about that, although his efforts were not always appreciated. Upon voicing his frustrations to a friend about the irresponsibility of others, he was told,

"You can't force everyone to take care of themself.. sometimes people just won't, and there's nothing you can do about it."

Emmerson told her that was ridiculous, and that people must take care of themselves, and if they wouldn't, then he was obligated to do so, because if he didn't then nobody would, and if nobody would then they'd get sick, or they'd get lost or drink and drive and get a DUI, or they might get into an argument or a fight with someone, or they might say or do some things they'll regret or they'll go home with someone they don't know and they could really get hurt that way, and if he isn't there to make _sure_ that they're safe and taken care of and get home okay and are making good decisions then he is just going to worry about it until he hears from them and that's just going to make it a bad time for everyone and he'll text and call and leave messages until he hears back and--

"Emmie, are you okay?"

No, not really. But I don't know why.

"Uh.. have you, like, gone to therapy? That helped me figure things out."

_Therapy?_ No, no. Emmerson thought that was even more silly than what she said before. Therapy wasn't for him-- he might not have felt okay, but that didn't mean there was something _wrong_ with him, right? Emmerson's life was very standard and boring. There was nothing particularly interesting about it. Therapy was for people whose whole hometowns were destroyed, or who were orphaned or sex trafficked or beaten everyday. You know, _real problems._ Emmerson didn't have anything like that.

So even if it felt bad, not mothering others made him feel even worse. So he kept doing it.

So he couldn't enjoy his young adulthood or his newfound independence from his family, because he was constantly preoccupied with 'adopting' others, even if only for a night, to ensure their safety.

But it was okay, because he didn't need to drink at a bar or with friends. He could just do it at home. Alone.

And when he would find a boyfriend or girlfriend, they always told him the same thing: that he was so controlling, always telling them what to do. It always had to be his way or no way. He always had to know where they were, what they were doing, who they were with. Emmerson insisted that it was necessary, to make sure they were okay. But nobody really wants to be treated like a child. 

***

Emmerson woke up, but he didn't open his eyes. He wanted to go back to sleep. He didn't want to do it today.

For a few minutes, he's a kid again. Waking up on Sunday morning. He could just choose to go back to sleep if he wanted to. His brain takes a minute to remember. Ah, yeah. He dismembered three bodies yesterday. They're in the basement. It's been almost three days since he showered. Someone is messing with his hair. He can feel tufts being curled between fingers. Did he think Emmerson was still sleeping? Did he just let himself inside, then? Whatever. Emmerson no longer feared death. At this point, it might be welcome.

Emmerson felt his fingers move down his face-- the injured side. It hurts a little, but he tried not to react. They come to rest on his neck. That made him nervous. He might've feared death a little. Emmerson could feel his own pulse against the intruder's frigid skin. Yeah. Time to wake up.

He stretched theatrically and let out a big yawn. He thought he was probably overdoing it, but doubted Jason would be able to tell. At the first sign of movement, Jason moved his fingers off of him. What Jason was doing was not completely obvious. Emmerson figured that if Jason wanted him dead, then he would absolutely be dead by now. There were two possible explanations: firstly, Jason is inherently homicidal and lacks the ability to interact with people on a non-hostile terms. Meaning, he was not completely resolved to murder him, but was probably considering it, or had some kind of animalistic urge to kill. The second possibility was that he rarely interacted with humans in a non-homicidal way, and was curious about it. Maybe both were true?

"It's okay," Emmerson slowly sat up. "I'm not so gr-r-reat with the living, either." He laughs at his own joke.

He doesn't feel recovered in the slightest. But he's alive, for better or worse. Which means he has to keep doing this shit.

His stomach growls angrily at him. Emmerson realized he didn't eat anything at all yesterday. That probably wasn't helping his current condition. He stood unsteadily, Jason's arms positioned just in front of him, fearful that he might fall. Emmerson made it up successfully, triumphantly sticking his tongue out at Jason. It's the little victories that matter these days.

Emmerson shuffled downstairs and into the kitchen. He missed his slippers as his heels dragged across the slick floors. He was not very strong, having spent most of the past couple years studying and writing essays. But today, his arms felt particularly weak. He tugged on the refrigerator door, but it wouldn't give-- like something sticky had sealed the door shut. Did he spill something and not realize? He focused his energy and gave one good, hard wrench. With a _pop!_ the door swings open.

"..Ack!" Now he fell to the ground, in part because of the force of the door swinging, and in part from the shock of what he saw inside.

"Jason! " he yelled, and he saw Jason pop his head up from the bottom of the stairs. "Why in the sweet hell is there a disemboweled r-r-rabbit in here?!" He recognized this rabbit. It was the one he saw in Jason's home yester--, no, wait, the day before yesterday. He didn't think it was being refrigerated. A sour scent of decay wafted out of the fridge. The organs of the rabbit were still spilling out of the prepared cavity, a look of terror permanently plastered on its face. If he had seen this before waking up to Jason's fingers around his throat, he probably would've been much more afraid. He might've brought it yesterday, having already placed it there before Emmerson returned from the bunker. Maybe Jason meant to give it to him when he first visited his home, or perhaps it was a gift to make up for busting his brain against his skull. Truly, Jason did look a bit upset right now, still at the bottom of the stairs, shrinking back slightly, curling his arms closer to him.

"ah..." he shifts his eyes between the rabbit and Jason. He grabbed a half-eaten chocolate bar from one of the shelves inside before slamming the door again. He stumbled to his feet and over to Jason, reaching up and patting him on the head.

"Sorr-ry," he whispered, "I was just thr-r-rown off, is a-all. Thank you for the.. bunny." He leans into Emmerson's hand, and he welcomes it with a few gentle scritches behind his ear. Jason really is very dog-like. Like a very vicious, potentially rabid dog, but a dog nonetheless. While doing so, Emmerson munched on the chocolate bar. It wasn't a bad taste, but it coated his tongue unpleasantly. As it settled into his stomach, his body grumbled. Clearly, this was not the food it wanted. But it was the food it was getting.

"I think I might need your help with something else," he says between chews as he draws back his hand. He looks a little sad that Emmerson stopped, but is inquisitive as to his task. He looks down at Emmerson with bright, curious eyes. Emmerson was increasingly feeling like he had adopted a child or dog. It was hard to meaningfully communicate with Jason, but Emmerson was beginning to enjoy his company nonetheless. He was fun to tease, if nothing else.

"Come on. Follow me." Emmerson fetched the blood samples from the fridge, doing his best to ignore the rotting animal carcass in his periphery. He slipped on some boots, not bothering with the laces, and walked out. He can still hear the cicadas-- it must've still been fairly early. It's not as sweltering as yesterday, at least not yet, but the humidity made him feel even grosser than before. Jason follows him expectantly, watching eagerly as he pushes over the compost bin, revealing the hatch downstairs. He stuck his entire head into the hatch, prompting Emmerson to hastily pull him out, afraid he was about to just dive face-first into the concrete floor below.

"No! Ther-r-re's a-a-a la-adder, you shouldn't do that. You'll get hur-rt," Jason blinks rapidly at him, as if only partly understanding. Hopeless. "Here, I'll go in fir-r-rst. You can follow me." He nods, turning back to the hatch. Emmerson caught a glimpse of the side of his head, exposed by a misalignment of his hood from pulling his head out of the bunker passage. Emmerson very carefully pulls the hood over more, brushing tufts of hair out of the way. There is an indentation where the bullet wound used to be.

"Wai-ait, hold still," he stared. Jason tried to look over at him, and Emmerson followed his movement to keep examining it. "Did.. did a-a-a bullet.. uh.. fa-all out of your head? Or.. maybe fra-ra..fragments.. er.. pieces.. of metal?" Jason's eyes trace something in the air before shrugging half-heartedly. This was incredibly frustrating. Emmerson found it hard to believe that he could so easily ignore a literal bullet inside his brain. But, he'd never had a bullet in his head, so what does he know? Maybe it feels just peachy-keen.

"Wha-atever. Come on," Emmerson nudged him away from the hatch and descended, holding the vials of blood close to his body. He quickly put the sweats back on which he had left down there, which themselves are now freezing and nearly intolerable to wear. Jason follows Emmerson down, casually walking up to the tarp of dismembered body parts. He tilts his head at him, obviously confused but unperturbed.

"I didn't kill them. I bought them," Jason is no less confused. He is maybe more confused. His eyes flitter about, trying to remember if he ever saw bodies being sold anywhere as a child. "Ther-re's something I r-r-really need to do today. It will take a long time. But I also need to get r-rid of these body par-arts. Do you think you would be able to get.. um.. dispose of them? For me?" Jason nods dutifully, casually picking up a decapitated head the same way you'd expect a child to pick up a basketball. The sight made Emmerson shudder. His childish, puppy-like demeanor kept making him forget that Jason has killed dozens of innocent people.

"But Jason," Emmerson put on his most assertive tone. Jason himself almost looks a little alarmed by it. "You need to put them somewhere they won't be found. Do you understand? Never, ever. If someone finds them, they'll know it was me. A-and they'll be ver-r-ry mad. Got it?" 

He nods, self-conscious but trying to look reliable. He held the head close to his tummy, anxious to get going.

"Okay. Thank you. You can go now," Emmerson felt like a parent dismissing his son out to play. He's worried, but surely he can follow basic instructions, even if he is basically an overgrown child. Emmerson had no choice at this point. He picked out Jason's blood sample, labeled "US4." Unknown Specimen #4. "Usa," he said softly. Isn't that the Japanese word for "rabbit?" He giggled a bit, imagining Jason with bunny ears. Somehow it'd be kinda fitting, had he not left a rotting rabbit carcass in his fridge.

Emmerson laid out the materials for an antigen test. It's pretty simple, and a decent place to start. One by one, he tested a drop of blood against A, B, D antibodies. Only the D-antibody reacted positively. So Jason is O-positive? He's slightly disappointed with the boring result. He wasn't sure what to expect, but he was hoping it'd at least be a little more interesting. 

It doesn't matter. Just keep going. He prepared to test for the levels of transforming growth factor beta (TGF-β) in the samples. He had three total samples, including Jason's. His first cadaver did not yield an adequate blood sample, but he was able to acquire samples for the other two from David. He knew that TGF-β levels are related to fibrotic scar formation, with an overabundance of TGF-β related to a propensity towards developing keloid scars, whereas low TGF-β levels are observed in those with impeded healing. Three groups of TGF-β exist, and he had the tedious task of testing all three.

Each was carried out using a slightly modified form of reverse transcription polymerase chain reaction, or RT-PCR, a process which induces RNA transcription into DNA while marking for a particular genetic substance. He gathered up the bottles of relevant chemicals for the preliminary fatty acid analysis. Let's see-- chloroform, hexane, butylated hydroxytoluene, and Taq polymerase. Ah.. he didn't have a centrifuge. Goddamnit! He knew he had meant to order something. Whatever. It's too late now. He just shook the vials as vigorously as he could. He heard the hatch open again.

"J-Jason, use the ladder," he mumble-yelled. Emmerson heard him coming downstairs a moment later to shuttle more limbs.

He prepared agarose gel blocks to perform electrophoresis. Jason looks at the gel blocks, intrigued. Emmerson must admit, they are rather fascinating. Like blocks of cyan-colored Jell-O. Emmerson decided to entertain him by smacking the agarose block with the handle of a probe. The gel wiggles, evoking a look of surprise and intrigue in Jason's eyes. But those eyes were also practically burning holes through Emmerson's gloved hands. "You're really freaking me out, just standing behind me like that." Jason huffs and returns to work, slinging limbs over his shoulder like firewood.

Using a micropipette, he deposited the blood into each well, using both hands to keep steady. It's irritatingly easy to miss the wells, or accidentally spill the fluid, or inject into the gel's walls. He quickly covered the apparatuses, waiting for the PCR to take place. In the meantime, he scribbled down his methods so far, and what he expected to see. For the TGF-β, there should be 9 total values, right? Yeah. With every year that passes, it gets harder and harder to do basic math.

When the PCR was complete, he created scanned images of the impressions made in the gel. Examination of the impressions (or lack thereof) and their progression gives an idea of the relative levels of TGF-β in the blood. His two subjects from the diener have more or less expected TGF-β levels for their respective medical conditions. The woman who suffered significant keloid scarring had very high levels of all types, suggesting that the TGF-β led to 'over-healing,' creating excess tissue around sites of injury. Conversely, the man with radiation exposure had low levels of all forms, indicating that wound healing was slowed or delayed.

Emmerson stared at Jason's results. He had very low levels of TGF-β 1 and 2, and very high levels of TGF-β 3. What does that mean..? That wasn't all. Jason had extremely high levels of anti-inflammatory cytokines. This made sense, given that he witnessed no inflammation occur during his wound healing. But he didn't completely understand how or why this was the case. Jason's levels of epidermal growth factors were also unexpectedly high for any adult. 

...

Emmerson hears Jason open the hatch again. He turned around, noticing the tarp was cleared of its morbid display. "Wow, you worked quickly. Tha-anks," Emmerson praised him as he approached. Or at least, he thought that was quick. He wasn't exactly keeping track of time. He supposed it was possible that it only seemed quick because of how focused he was. Jason looked proud of his accomplishment. It gave Emmerson a sense of warm contentment in his chest. He motioned Jason over, and gave him a scritch behind the ear. "Good boy."

Turning back to his work, he wondered what his results could mean. Emmerson looked at Jason, who was impatiently waiting to keep helping. Emmerson considered asking him what he thought about the findings, or if he knew anything. But Emmerson was already fairly certain that he wouldn't get a very helpful answer-- if he got anything at all. Even on the off-chance that Jason does have some idea, he doubts he'd be able to express it.

"We'll ha-ave to get r-rid of the tarp still.. and the blood samples. Shouldn't be too difficult, though," he figured that he wouldn't need the cadaver blood anymore. He'd still like to do a few more tests, but they'd be with Jason. And it didn't seem he would become unavailable any time soon. "a-a-and, I was wonder-r-ring... if I could store my files with you." He gathered up the papers, holding them in front of himself. He hadn't been too on edge with Jason today, although Emmerson did get nervous standing by him. The height difference was just astounding. Jason reaches to take the papers from him.

"A-ah.. I wa-anted to go with y-you. Back to y-y-your home. If y-you would let me," Emmerson smiled. He wanted to find the right balance in his interactions with him, but he didn't know where that place was. Physically intimidated by him, Emmerson had been trying to assert himself through his demeanor. Yesterday it might've veered into straight-up bullying. Emmerson didn't want to be mean to him-- it's probably in the best interest of his bodily integrity to avoid doing that too much. But maybe he'd like to keep Jason guessing a bit. "I hope y-you'll for-r-rgive me for invi-i-iting myself."

They exit together, bringing his notes, and the rest of the disposables. By the look and feel of it, it's probably afternoon by now. "Y-you'll ha-a-ave to show me the wa-ay," Emmerson admitted. Jason turns to him, a vacuous but knowing gaze. Jason doesn't say anything, but somehow, Emmerson felt he knew what Jason was thinking. _What do you mean? You got there before._ And he surely did. He still didn't know how he did, or what guided him. He had tried to forget, convincing himself it was his intoxicated imagination.

Jason shrugs, taking Emmerson's hand. They disappear into the forest together.


	12. Chapter 12

Aspen was not enthusiastic about leaving Camp Crystal Lake, but begrudgingly complied after they made it clear that only Billie was allowed to touch them. They seemed only vaguely aware of the frantic concern that the two had upon finding them on the shoreline. O'Ryan turned on the sirens on the way back into town, much to Aspen's dismay. They were promptly taken to the hospital for examination and treatment.

The blood on Aspen's clothes was their own. They had been pierced with needles across their abdomen and groin, and the resulting perforations were the apparent source of the blood. They didn't cause any apparent serious damage: the bleeding made it look quite worse than it actually was. Aspen did not appear to have any injuries indicative of a struggle or self-defense. There were no lacerations or indentations which would suggest that they were recently restrained. Aspen claims that they were approaching the shore to clean off the blood when they met O'Ryan and Billie there.

There appeared to be parallel scars across Aspen's body, which were clearly created purposefully, either by themself or another person. Thus, bodily mutilation appears to be nothing new for Aspen: the question was who inflicted it and for what purpose. Because of the presence of several perforations in Aspen's groin, they were examined for signs of physical sexual trauma. A rape kit determined there were no foreign secretions present, nor signs of recent sexual intercourse; additionally, Aspen's hymen remained intact.

Psychologically, Aspen appeared rather unaffected by their own injuries, suggesting that the incident was either a common occurrence or that they were in control, the latter of which would suggest self-mutilation or directed mutilation. They seemed rather emotionally volatile, although had difficulty expressing their feelings. They were also clearly stunted socially and verbally. A strange and immediately-visible aspect of Aspen's psychology was their aversion to being touched. Initially, it was thought to be the result of some type of physical or sexual trauma. But oddly, Aspen tolerated being touched (even invasively, in the case of the exams) so long as there was some barrier between their skin, such as clothing or a glove. The one exception was Billie, who Aspen said was fine to touch them, on the grounds that Billie had touched them before. This reasoning was not well understood by the medical practitioners.

Afterwards, Aspen was allowed to shower and change into the new clothing provided to them. They almost looked like a normal, albeit small, 19-year-old when they were cleaned of the grease and grime, and were given appropriately-fitting clothing. When O'Ryan entered the sitting room where Aspen waited, they were gripping a can of Dr. Pepper with both hands, sipping it through a specifically-requested bendy straw.

"Enjoyin' that?" he clicked the door shut.

"Tasty.." Aspen said through the side of their mouth.

O'Ryan was not quite sure where to begin here. Aspen was officially a missing person for the last decade, but informally was presumed dead. And then they simply find her in an abandoned campground, covered in blood, seemingly unaware that anything was wrong at all.

"So, Miz.. Askill..? My bad, Miz _Mc_ Askill," it was a bit of a tongue-twister. "Where you been the last ten years?"

"Gamp Gryssal Lage," she mumbled, straw still in mouth.

"Right. Alone? In a cabin?"

"Wif Buppy. House."

"Mmhm. I heard 'bout yer dog. 'n where's this house?"

"Um.." Aspen lets go of the straw. "Uh.. forest.."   
Not exactly an ideal answer. They might have to get her to take them to the house.

"How'dju manage to live there so long?"

Aspen cocked her head, a little unsure of the meaning of the question. "Trash.."

"What?"

"Garbage.. food. Thrown away. In trash cans. Yes. And Puppy hunts... Animals, I mean.. Can eat."

"Er.. no. What I mean is.. Didn'tchu ever see anythin' dangerous?"

"Oh. yes."

Aspen continues sipping the Dr. Pepper. O'Ryan waits for her to continue, but apparently, she needs a cue first.

"Can you.. Can you tell me 'bout it?"

"Um.. bear, once."

"..yeah. That's pretty dangerous.." This didn't seem to be going quite as he hoped. Maybe just moving on. "So. You met Billie already? How'd that happen?"

"Was at camp.. Hunting turtle." her nose crunches and lips purse, as if she had a bone to pick with that turtle.

"..okay. 'n what about the attack? D'you know anythin' 'bout that?"

Aspen's nose wiggles a bit as she stares into some space above O'Ryan's head. For the first time, she looks like she both understands the question as O'Ryan intended it, and is trying very intently to answer it correctly.

"Was.. in the tunnels.."

"Tunnels?" O'Ryan had not heard anything about 'tunnels.' Billie, who was listening just outside, perked up at the word, too.

"Tunnels under house. Tunnels under cabins. Was in them. Puppy, too."

"What for?"

Aspen shrugged. "Just 'cause.. Puppy attack."

"Attacked you?" 

"No. Chez-ter."

O'Ryan laughed a bit. Again, it seemed they were talking about two different things. "Naw. I'm talkin' 'bout a different attack. Wasn't a dog attack."

Aspen made a sour face again. "Urgh.. Puppydog attacked Chez-ter.. Killed Chez-ter.."

It was O'Ryan's turn to make a face at her. Chester's death was certainly a homicide committed with a sharp object. Not something a dog would've been capable of. But Aspen seemed like they at least believed what they were saying. 'Puppydog.' 'Puppy..'

"Can you tell me 'bout yer puppy?"

"Puppy strong. Good hunter. The best," Aspen's eyes light up. "And likes painting. Art. Likes stones and flowers and bones. Likes head scratches and pets. Likes--"

Painting.. And art..?

"Aspen." O'Ryan cuts her off. "What's yer puppy look like?"

Aspen thinks. "Um.. can't see face. Always wears.." she waves her hands in front of her face, "mask.." O'Ryan turns to the window, where Billie is looking in. Her mouth is covered by her hand, looking nauseous. "Tall. Big." She raises her arms in emphasis.

O'Ryan takes a deep breath. "And you live with.. Puppy?"

"Uh-huh."

"Fer how long?"

"Um.. since.. Ten years?"

"Shit.." O'Ryan's eyes went wide and his mouth twisted into a scowl. "Aspen, did.." O'Ryan felt himself becoming distraught as he considered what this girl might've gone through in the last ten years. When she was just an innocent little girl, already traumatized by the loss of her parents. He thought about his own unborn child at home. "..did 'e.. ugh.. did 'e put those needles in you?"

"Uh-huh." Aspen stated with utmost colorlessness. "Um.. wanted him to.."

"No.. No, don't say that." he practically felt his heart break as he heard her say those words. It was hard for him to listen to.

Aspen was ashamed of her debauchery. Her face got a little red, and she shrunk back as she sipped the last bits of the Dr. Pepper. "Sorry.."

"No! That's.. not what I meant.." He didn't know how to deal with these sorts of things. "What about the scars? Was that him, too?"

Aspen shook her head. Maybe they were self-harm scars, then.

"Thank you, I.. I'll be right back. Will you be okay?"

Aspen nods.

Billie watches him leave the room, wondering how she could've been so stupid. Aspen made it obvious from the very beginning. They said Puppy killed that rabbit. The rabbit with a single incision running down it and its organs pulled cleanly out. A dog can't kill an animal in such a precise manner. Aspen was being held hostage by a fucking serial killer and God knows what else, and that's probably why they begged Billie to stay. Because they were afraid and they didn't want to be alone here anymore. If she had just thought about this a little more, if she had bothered to think about anything other than her own petty issues for more than half a second, then maybe she would've put two and two together, got her and her friends out of that camp, and got Aspen somewhere safe, too. Instead, Chester was dead, Noel might be too, and Aspen got twenty needles shoved through their flesh. Nice one, Billie!

O'Ryan looked at her. She looked ready to throw up any minute. He didn't feel very well himself.

"What now?" she choked out the words.

"We c'n go kill the son-of-a-bitch."

"What, like.. vigilante justice?"

"I'm not a vigilante. I'm a police officer."

Billie sighed. "You may as well be one if you're gonna act as judge, jury, and executioner all on your own."

"C'mon. Y'know this motherfucker's done some.. heinous shit. 'n 'er description matched yours. We know the guy, 'n I think we're justified here."

"We _don't_ know the guy. We know he's tall, he wears a mask, and supposedly lives near the camp. What if we killed the wrong guy?"

O'Ryan rolls his eyes. "Think there're many masked maniacs running around the forest these days?"

"I just.." Billie folds her arms in front of her stomach. "I want to get this guy too. But I don't think it's a good idea to rush into it, guns blazing."

O'Ryan looks unsatisfied, but he doesn't look like he's gonna push it too much. Not yet.

"I gotta call my wife."

Billie looks through the window. Aspen sits there, patiently. She opens the door, and Aspen turns to her. 

"Bill-ee." Aspen sounded as matter-of-fact as ever. "Can I go home now?"

***

The second visit to Jason's home was not as unsettling as the first, perhaps because it was still daytime. A home which had all its inhabitants unexpectedly pulled from it, it did not feel as dangerous as it did melancholic. Situated in what was functionally a marsh, the air was damp and warm, the walls feeling almost as if they breathed. In the light, Emmerson noticed that the house itself was a piece of the forest biome, mushrooms and lichens sprouting from the wooden walls, vines embracing the exterior.

He wondered if he was the first person to be invited into this home since the death of Jason's mother. There were probably past visitors, but not welcome ones.

Emmerson figured he wouldn't have to worry about anyone taking his files, or them being otherwise misplaced. But the house was clearly not shielded from the natural elements. He searched, looking for some area that might reasonably protect it.

"May I go ups-s-stairs?" He still held the files close to his chest. Jason looked hesitant, peering up the stairs. He nodded, not making eye contact with his guest. His visible insecurity regarding whatever was upstairs almost convinced Emmerson to just stay on the ground floor. But he was too interested now. The stairs were steep, and did not feel stable in the slightest-- but if they could support Jason, then they could no doubt support the much smaller Emmerson.

On the right in the hallway appeared to be the main bedroom. It was rather old-fashioned in appearance, with (now) vintage wooden furniture and a double bed centered in front of a rounded window. Layers of thick, pastel quilts drowned the mattress beneath, inviting him to pounce onto the fluffy covers. But he resisted. The room was sparsely decorated, save for a few kitschy statues of angels, puppies, and other matronly motifs atop the bureau and crocheted wall-hangings. Unlike the downstairs, this room appeared well-maintained, aside from the speckles of dust which imbue the air. He considered hiding the files here, although something told him that this room was.. special, somehow. Like he might upset someone if he were to disturb it. 

Down the hall, left of the staircase, was another bedroom of significantly different disposition. A single bed sat in the furthest corner, covered with a single quilt constructed in garishly saturated primary colors. It was not especially clean nor organized, at least compared to the average inhabited bedroom. Children's toys were strewn about, with no particular pattern or theme to them, or even gendered association. Dolls, models, figurines, and stuffed animals alike inhabit the room in copious numbers. Their only commonality was their quite literal defacement: all of the faces are burned, scribbled out, crushed, or cut off. Obviously Jason's room, Emmerson isn't sure if it is actually used or not; although, it's evident that the bed is too small for him to use now. He slipped the files under the pillow on the bed-- an easy spot to remember as well.

One more room remained. It lay between the two bedrooms. Unlike the bedrooms, the door to this room was shut. Does.. does that mean that it's off-limits? Emmerson peeked down the hallway into the first bedroom. It looks the same as before: no signs of life. At least no visible ones. He looked down the stairs. He didn't see Jason from his limited view. In fact, he can't hear Jason anywhere, which was extremely unusual. Normally his stomps were very clearly audible. Emmerson wrapped his fingers around the doorknob.

 _I don't think you should_. The thought invaded Emmerson. He thought that it might be a bad idea before, but this thought didn't even feel like his own. It was like somebody had spoken to him, in his own voice, inaudibly. He pulled his hand away from the doorknob, as naturally and instinctively as any other automatic reaction. He felt like he had almost committed a serious transgression, and someone, or something, had stopped him just short of it. He felt eyes on his back. He turned sharply, eyes immediately drawn to the bottom of the stairs.

Jason stood there. Emmerson didn't hear him approach. He sought for the right words. _Jason? Was that you?_ Emmerson thought. But it didn't happen again. Jason says nothing, neither audibly nor inaudibly. Jason doesn't react to his thoughts. _Of course he wouldn't-- why would he? Was that your imagination, then? Or was it something else?_

"That is your bed-d-droom, to the left of the s-s-stairs, right?" Emmerson did his best to brush past it as he descended the staircase. He didn't actually do anything wrong, but he still felt guilty. He felt like Jason witnessed him about to do something wrong. He witnessed him considering it. Emmerson worried Jason's opinion may have changed of him, indicated from the uncharacteristic poker-face he was giving him. It was like that first morning. Jason was making a moral assessment of him. A judgement.

He finally softens slightly and nods.

"I hope you d-don't mind.. I put my records und-der your pillow. You can move them, if you need to," Emmerson confessed to him a potential sin, although not the sin for which he was judged. Jason shakes his head, reassuring Emmerson of his innocence.

"I.. was cons-s-sidering coming back here later tonight.. If you would-d be so k-kind-d as to allow it," Emmerson relayed his request. "It w...it's nice to have a change of s-scenery. And, I.. we.. can try a few more tes-sts.." He understood the suspicious timing of such a question. Jason clearly did as well. He assessed Emmerson once more, before agreeing to the proposition, admittedly a bit unenthusiastically.

"Thank you," Emmerson considered reaching out to him, trying to scritch his ear again, or pat his head, whatever he could to make this feel less clinical. But he was.. afraid.

"I think for the meantime.. I'll go to the main camp, if that's-s alright. But I'll be back before nighttime," he said, trying to sound casual and strolling to the door. Jason watches him, but says nothing, looking empty. He clicked the door closed, a physical barrier created between him and the killer. But he didn't feel any more secure.

 _What the hell?_ He felt exceptionally cold, almost shivering, despite the oppressive heat. Again, he is reminded that just because Jason doesn't execute him on-sight does not mean that he is entirely incapable of doing so. He clearly still distrusts Emmerson, at least in some settings, despite his past attempt to heal him. But Emmerson's own distress is intensified by his confusion as to why Jason became so vacant upon his attempted trespass-- no, his _considered_ trespass-- especially since Jason had given him permission to traverse the second floor. Was he simply that turbulent of an individual? And if so, how should Emmerson proceed in his doings with him? But also-- what was that strange feeling he got when he approached that room? It's like the air became heavier. And.. that thought.. whose was it?

Emmerson reached the shore of the lake, surprisingly. He had mostly just meandered about, in hopes that he might reach something of note. He really just wanted some time to think. But, if he was here anyway, he may as well take advantage of it.

He hastily looked around, ensuring there was nobody nearby. Doesn't seem to be the case. He's a bit self-conscious of even the idea of undressing in such a (theoretically) public place, but he's fairly certain that he won't be interrupted. He began unbuttoning his shirt before deciding to simply pull it over your head, his hair further tousled in the process. It was pretty messy in the first place. He pulled off his shorts and underwear, tossing them into the grass. Dipping a few toes into the water, he didn't think it was terribly cold, although submerging up to the metatarsals changed his mind. Waiting for his body to adjust, he periodically surveyed the sand, his eyes caught by ample dots of frosted green and clear sea glass embedded in the shore. He does feel slightly nervous by the debris, but in the absence of any visibly sharp or otherwise dangerous refuse, he continued on. Wading forward, the cold water engulfs his thighs and hips, stimulating the hairs in his sensitive areas. He made a pronounced dive forward, inundating his whole body. Closing his eyes, he goes under, water rushing between the wefts. He doubted his hair would get any cleaner from this, but at the moment, it wasn't his concern. He was just happy to finally bathe after several demanding, traumatizing days. 

He plodded back to the shore, his feet becoming coated in wet sand, dampening his experience slightly, but still feeling much less repulsive than before. He hoped his hair wouldn't dry into a mess, but he wasn't going to count on it. He didn't have any clean clothes, and felt putting his filthy clothes back on would defeat the purpose. But even if the campsite was deserted, he would feel embarrassed just walking around naked. He pulled on his shorts, leaving them unbuttoned and only halfway zipped. He slipped on his shirt, only one button fastened. At least he wasn't completely exposed. A specific piece of sea glass catches his eye as he moves to pick up his shoes: a cloudy red orb, with a softened slat-like pattern. He slipped it into his pocket. Tucking his fingers between the laces of the boots, he headed towards the campsite.

The four cabins come into sight, congregated around an eagle totem. Despite being abandoned and most of the facilities looking worn-down, he thought that most of the camp could still be usable with renovation. But, of course, the facilities were not why the camp was now defunct. The first cabin he entered is arranged not dissimilar to barracks, although furnished with corny, motivational posters espousing platitudes regarding character and integrity. Evidently, this was a cabin for children campers, although not explicitly gendered. While unmaintained, and rather disorganized, it didn't look particularly unusual. Emmerson doubted he'd find clothes that fit in a child's cabin, and decide to move on.

Assuming the similarly-sized cabin was another barrack for the opposite sex, he chose to instead inspect one of the smaller cabins. Comparatively, this smaller cabin was much more damaged: deep scratches scarred the interior's floor, blackish-red stains spotted the walls and ground, furniture and articles strewn randomly, as if a struggle had ensued-- a struggle may be an understatement. Trudging around the shack, poking and turning over objects with his sandy feet, he looks for something relatively unscathed to wear. Under an overturned chair, he found a large hooded flannel which presumably belonged to a previous occupant. Removing his old clothes, he slipped on the flannel which fell just below the mid-thigh point. He would prefer having something to wear under it, but he didn't presently have the option. He made sure to pocket the red sea glass. After attempting to brush off the sand from his feet, he slipped his boots back on, grimacing as he felt missed grains rubbing against the insoles. Too late now.

The furthest wall had a large hole through it, like someone had punched or kicked it. The wall closest to the door had a fallen tripod and camera against it. Unlike many of the other objects, these appeared relatively new: the camera was a newer model, and lacked the dusty pallor of the rest of the interiors. What the hell happened here?

When he turned back to the front door, something caught his eye. He had left the door open, and so its interior face was mostly obscured as it leaned against the wall. He could see just the outer edge of the image on the door, which, with only a cursory glance, appeared not unlike the stains that dotted the walls. So he was not expecting anything particularly unusual-- relative to the rest of the cabin, that is.

"..?"

_What.. the fuck?_ The image occupied the entire interior face of the door, and was painted in a viscous, dark liquid. But it was more than that: before painting, most of it was carved into the door itself, like a woodcut. The 'paint' was then applied to the carvings, staining the wood. Emmerson would find this image unsettling in nearly any context, except perhaps an academic or historical one, but it was exceptionally disconcerting in this place. It clearly would have taken a long time to create with such precise detailing. Meaning, someone was here, in this cabin, for a very extended period, purposefully carving this occultish image into the door where several teenagers were rumoured to have been killed, supposedly by an undead, supernatural entity.

No, he didn't like it at all.

He was too nervous to take his eyes off of it. Like it might disappear if he looked away, or something awful might manifest in its place. A silly thought, but he'd been having a lot of silly realities lately. Backing up steadily, he crouched down, groping at the ground to find the camera. When he felt the smooth, vaguely cube-shaped electronic, he promptly shoved it into the flannel pocket with the seaglass. He walks towards it, gently wraps each finger around the doorknob and pulls. The image fades into the darkness as the door opens, the light of the late afternoon instead violating his periphery. He steps out, pulling the door closed from behind him.

He's alive, so that's a good sign, at least. The forest sounded like it enjoyed the display, giggling and applauding at their performer's fear. Emmerson did not appreciate his terror being made into a display for some perverse entertainment, but the watchers had a very child-like cruelty that needed constant satiation. Feeling a bit poorly for the thespian's disheartenment, they amplify their praise.

Emmerson began the trip back to Jason's dwelling, the forest guiding the way. 


	13. Chapter 13

Aspen was in near-hysterics upon learning they could not return to Camp Crystal Lake. They insisted that 'Puppy' was their family, that they needed 'Puppy' and that 'Puppy' needed them, and so on and so on. There was more that O'Ryan wanted to get out of them, but unfortunately, it was slightly delayed because of Aspen's panic attack. A sedative calmed them down, but O'Ryan was waiting it out a bit. Aspen was hard enough to understand before any drugs. He's sure she'd be incomprehensible on tranquilizers.

"Think she's got Stockholm Syndrome?"

Billie just shrugged. "I'm not a psychologist. It is weird, though."

Through the hospital window, Aspen's little head popped out from under the pitch-white comforter, their mass of stiff black hair splayed across the pillowcase like 100,000 antennae.

"Don't think she's gonna give us any info that'll help us get the guy." O'Ryan scowled.

"Yeah. You're probably right."

Retrieving Aspen was no doubt a good thing, if for no other reason than as an unrelated rescue mission. Materially, though, they didn't provide much new or helpful for the purposes of actually getting the killer. They did get additional confirmation on the information they already had, but little more to put them in a new direction. Aspen was clearly attached to 'Puppy,' and would probably decline to take them to the killer's location, assuming they were cognisant of the possible repercussions that might have on him; or, at the very least, the annoyance it'd cause him to have to hunt two more trespassers.

The two continued to watch Aspen through the window as the bug-like creature rolled over in the hospital bed. Billie didn't really care for this type of open-windowed room: she felt disturbingly voyeuristic watching a half-asleep teenager roll around in bed.

"I'd really appreciate getting this over with soon."

"Still feelin' sick?"

"No, not really," Billie shrugged, still unsure as to why that was the case. "I just don't take much pleasure in this sorta thing."

"You c'n talk to her if you'd like," O'Ryan smirked. Billie wasn't entirely sure what his smile was meant to suggest, but it seemed entirely inappropriate. Did he view this as a game? A competition between the two in finding the killer? Billie wasn't a detective or a cop, so she never considered herself more than a helpful witness. Or did he just think it'd be funny to watch Aspen's sedative-riddled brain try to trudge through questioning? 

Billie just rolled her eyes. O'Ryan was pretty upset when he talked to Aspen earlier, but now he seemed to be back to enjoying the submissive performance of his traumatized subjects.

"Aspen's a human person, you know."

He frowned. "I'm well aware, thanks." Was he? Billie just didn't understand how he could be so distraught over Aspen's trauma only a couple of hours earlier, only to find their panic-induced delirium to be funny now.

"Whatever." She entered the hospital room, leaving the officer in the hallway. Aspen only vaguely acknowledged her presence, lifting their head slightly before plopping back onto the pillow, groaning like a child woken up for school.

"Hey. Feeling any better?" She wasn't sure how to broach the subject, or if it was a stupid or insensitve question. She imagined that if they were feeling any better, it was only because of the tranquilizers. Stockholm Syndrome or not, Aspen's going to be in a very emotionally volatile state after living in that situation for an entire decade.

They gave only a disgruntled mewl, rubbing their eyes with the blanket and lazily sitting up. They looked at Billie expectantly. Despite their stupor, they were aware that Billie had not come in simply for a wellness check.

"So.. I was wondering if you knew anything about Noel. We never found her." Billie swallowed hard. She knew what she wanted to ask well before this moment, but it only then sank in that she might hear something devastating.

"Ugh.." Aspen rubbed their eyes again, their hands moving to massage their temples.

_Forget about it, forget about it, forget about it..._

Aspen didn't want to deal with this anymore. Noel was dead, and there was nothing that anyone could do to bring her back. So it was time to move on. If they said they knew something, then would that mean they'd be poked at with more questions? Aspen didn't want that. Aspen wanted to forget about it.

Billie watched them for an agonizingly long time. In reality, it was probably just a minute or two, but every second was physically painful for her as her heart began to palpitate and her breath became uneven. It was even worse that Aspen's eyes remained closed, their face twisted into a similarly unchanging expression of hurt.

"No.." Aspen lied. An anticlimactic answer. Billie felt a void form in their diaphragm. The most likely outcome of her disappearance was that Noel was dead. But she wanted to know either way. She couldn't begin to find a solution until she knew the answer. She couldn't move on. She sighed heavily. Aspen could tell it wasn't the answer she wanted, although they didn't exactly understand why. They considered taking it back, and telling her the truth. Besides, isn't it bad to tell lies? But then there would be more questions and more trouble. They would be mad at Puppy because he killed Noel-- well, madder than they already were. And Aspen couldn't disagree that he was a bad dog sometimes, but he would be okay if he was left alone, right?

Yeah. Aspen was willing to justify it in any way that they could. And Puppy couldn't help the way he was 'born.' You could say that it was a central component of his canon. Or maybe it would be more accurate to say it was written into the very heart of his 'corpus.' Would you scold a cat for hunting its prey? Cats are natural-born killers. They often don't even kill for sustenance. They just do it for fun. And it's not like Puppy takes pleasure in it. It's really more like his job than anything. So you can't really be mad at him, right?

Right?

"Hey." Billie leans towards the sprite, who had appeared lost their worried thoughts for some time. Aspen, still affected by the sedative, was not accurately experiencing the passage of time. "You know you don't have to go back to the camp, right?" Billie worried it might be too early to bring up this subject again so soon, but it would probably go over better while the drug was still working.

"No. Have to."

"No, you really don't." Billie knew Aspen had given explicit permission to be touched by her, but she still knew they were very nervous about touching. Instead, she placed her hand on the bed, very close to Aspen's body.

"No. Have to. Only have Puppy. Can't be here. Can't be anywhere. Except camp."

"You can find new people. You can start a new life, a much better one than you could ever have with.. 'Puppy.'"

"No. Can't. Can't have anyone. Except Pup."

"You have me." Billie smiled. To her surprise, Aspen immediately glared at her, face twisted and soured.

"No. Said you wouldn't. Said you wouldn't stay."

Billie did say that. She bit her lip, cursing herself. If she had had a better grasp of the situation, she would've said something much different. Apparently, that really stuck with Aspen. It hurt them.

"I'm sorry. I didn't realize how much that meant to you at the time," Billie has no course of action except to be honest. "But I want to help you. You can stay with me, if that's what you need. Just don't go back to the camp. Please."

Aspen shook their head furiously. "Can only be at the camp! Cannot be with Billie anywhere else!"

This was a more surprising development. Billie had thought they'd formed an attachment to 'Puppy,' and the camp's significance was only because of his presence. Why did it sound like Aspen had a connection to the camp itself?

"Why only the camp?"

"Camp is.. 'special.'" Aspen nods nervously. They appear to be piecing together their thoughts again, uncertain of the correct words for this precise idea. "Uh... camp is for people who.. cannot.. ' _exist_ '.. anywhere else..." 

Aspen looked like they were reasonably satisfied with their answer, but it did not help Billie at all. Why the emphasis on 'exist'? And even with a literal interpretation, why would that be the case for Aspen?

"Why can't you exist anywhere else?"

"Am disease."

"...huh? What'd you say?"

"Can't exist anywhere else. Am disease. Make people sick."

..no. She _did_ hear that correctly. Aspen is.. a disease? What the hell does that mean? Makes people sick? Yeah, that's what diseases do. Still doesn't explain why Aspen would say or think that they _were_ a disease, whatever that would even entail.

Aren't abuse victims often conditioned into believing that they aren't worthy of love or affection from anyone but their abuser? Maybe it was something like that, then? The killer probably told Aspen that everyone is sick of them, or they drive people away or they can't be with anyone else. Can't _exist_ with anyone else. 

Billie smiled after she deciphered it. "No. You're not a disease. You'll find lots of people who will love you for who you are."

"No.. make people sick.. People leave and get sick."

"You didn't make me sick."

Aspen cocked their head, looking at Billie a little bewildered. "Are you _sure?_ " The words were not indicative of a person who is insecure about themselves because of abuse. Their voice seemed to convey the idea that Billie _should_ be sick-- that is, Billie becoming sick was simply 'just so,' as obvious and indisputable as the fact that you will bleed if you cut yourself. It freaked her out a little bit. Did Aspen really mean it literally? It's impossible, of course, that a human could 'be' a disease or anything of the sort. But it was still disturbing that Aspen seemed to believe it so firmly.

She composed herself. "Yeah. I'm sure."

Aspen didn't look so sure. They narrowed their thin, black eyes at her, pupils darted across her body, as if looking for some sign of illness. After a short time, their face reset, eyes resting on nothing in particular. The door clicked open just after, and Billie turned to see O'Ryan. He smiled with a hint of unexpected sheepishness, as if aware that he may have interrupted something. Maybe he didn't think this conversation was going anywhere productive to his case.

"Feelin' better?"

Aspen's pupils moved to him, but their face did not change. Billie was more expressive, clearly annoyed that he would insert himself when they were discussing a sensitive subject.

"Hope y'all forgive me for eavesdroppin', but I heard a lil' bit of your conversation." Billie rolled her eyes. He was almost definitely listening to all of it. "Miz McAskill, d'you think you have a 'disease' of some sort?"

Aspen looked unsure of how to answer the question, their eyes trying to find the answer, their lip progressively curling into a toothy scowl. They had no idea how to answer.

"Ugh.. am.. disease.."

O'Ryan frowned a bit as well. He didn't know what that meant.

O'Ryan was faced with an issue. Aspen could not technically be detained by him for the purposes of this case, because to their knowledge, she had not committed a crime, and there was not reasonable suspicion that she may have. She could be detained if there was reason to believe that she might be a danger to herself or to others, but even if it was guaranteed that she would return to the camp, it would be a stretch to claim that Aspen herself was the danger. There was the possibility to request special authority over her on the basis of psychological impairment, but such a process would take much longer than they had. For reasons related to both of the prior scenarios, involuntary commitment in a psychiatric institution was probably unlikely as well.

There was, however, the possibility of finding ways to keep Aspen in the hospital for an extended period. During her examination, they found no signs of physical disease, although it wasn't exactly what they were looking for. If, however, they could find some reason to believe that Aspen has some type of ailment, they might be able to keep her in the hospital for longer. Of course, as an adult, there were certain aspects of care that Aspen could refuse if she so chose. However, if Aspen had a communicable disease, then it may be argued that they cannot refuse treatment for the health of the overall community. This might additionally be bolstered by her apparent mental state.

"You c'n get people sick, right?" O'Ryan's smiling, but his eyes remain blank and threatening. Aspen cowers from his gaze, uncomfortable with the eye contact, even when they weren't talking.

"Um.." Aspen _did_ just tell Billie that, and he was clearly listening in on their conversation. So they couldn't exactly lie. "Can.. but.." they fumbled with the sheets between their white fingers. "Only.. if touching.. Can't get.. sick.. if not touching.." They very cautiously brought their eyes upward, while also raising the sheets over their chest. "So.. have to get back.."

Billie tried to connect all of the dots. So, Aspen believed they were a disease. Maybe that just means they're a carrier for it, or maybe they really do believe that they're the manifestation of the illness itself. Either way, Aspen believes that this disease is spread through touch, hence why they do not allow themself to be touched, except with an appropriate skin barrier, or, in Billie's case, if they had been touched before. There were two cases in which Billie and Aspen touched: first, when Billie placed her hand on Aspen's shoulder when they met on the pier; second, when Aspen felt Billie's hand in the 'special spot.' So, Billie had unknowingly violated that touch barrier, and Aspen deemed it okay to continue physical contact from then out.

It was all very strange. If this was a way to keep Aspen devoted to their abuser, then it was a rather convoluted strategy. That said, it did seem to work. Aspen was very particular about who could touch them and how. And because touch was probably inevitable at some point in everyday life, Aspen was compelled to live outside of society to prevent 'infecting' anyone; in this case, at Camp Crystal Lake. Was there more to that part? It could be that the abuser needed some rationalization as to why they could touch Aspen, but others couldn't. If Aspen's abuser and the murderer were the same person, then it was unlikely that they cared about the well-being of the general populace, even if Aspen seems to. Instead, it was probably an aspect created to ensure total control and exclusivity to Aspen's person.. Which is pretty gross, to put it mildly.

Still, was it all really necessary? It seems like the conventional abuser strategies would work just as well, and they wouldn't require so much mental gymnastics to implement. Was there some reason why they had to use this story? Also-- Aspen has supposedly been living with this person for ten years, or since they were nine years old. A nine-year-old might believe such a tale, and such a living situation would no doubt cause some developmental issues, but it was odd that Aspen seemed to still believe it so fervently. Did they really never question it? And if they really didn't, then why did they believe it so strongly? Did they have good reason to?

Billie thought it was obvious that there was no real illness. The story was fake, but it made sense in the context of the latter half of Aspen's life. Billie was not going to push Aspen too far in one direction or the other: she thought it would be better to slowly and gently bring them back into reality. However, O'Ryan had no problem exploiting Aspen's trauma-related delusions if it meant furthering his own goals.

"Well, we should make sure y'ain't got anythin' you could spread around-- see 'bout runnin' sum more tests 'n such."

Aspen looks unhappy, but either too sedated or too resigned to argue as intensely as earlier. "Will be okay.. if.. go back to camp.." they rub their temples again, feeling a headache coming on. "No-one gets sick.. go back to camp.."

It just made Billie sad to watch. She already knew that they had lost to him. 

*** 

Afternoon was beginning to fall away to evening, a soft glow breaking through the canopy and burning the tips of the sugar maple leaves. Cicadas had begun to chirp their portentous songs, imparting their tone upon the derelict house. The front door is closed, and while he did tell Jason he'd be back, he felt given today's events, it would be best to knock. But to his surprise, the door opens with a sluggish creak as he approaches-- perhaps on a broken hinge. He doubted much repair has been, or would be, done on it. The interior becomes progressively disconcerting as it is gradually submerged in darkness.

"Jason?" he called out into the house, stepping to the altar-mantel, he doesn't appear to be in the living room. He turned around to check the kitchen, only to meet him, less than a foot away from Emmerson.

"--eek!" he jumped back. Jason doesn't seem to understand the concept of personal space very well. "I, uh.. I'm back," Emmerson gave him a bashful smile, his heart recovering from the scare.

Jason nods with confidence, apparently having ascertained this information.

"I was th-th-thinking.. we could get a sample collection out of the way. I'm gonn-n-na n-need skin cells," he stated bluntly. He knew that Jason wouldn't like it. "Th-the easiest way to get a skin sample is from the in-nside of the mouth."

Jason doesn't seem to fully understand, but looks apprehensive. He tilts his head, asking for clarification.

Emmerson sighed, feeling the still-sore side of his face. "You're gonn-na n-need to take off your mask--"

Jason shakes his head forcefully, glowering at him through the eyeholes.

"You won-n-n't even h-have to take it off completely," Emmerson pleaded. "Just h-high enough that I can see your mouth. I don't n-need to even touch you to do it."

Jason remains resolute. He doesn't shake his head again: his continued glare said it all. Emmerson gave an exaggerated sigh.

"And h-here, I was going to give you a reward for b-being so good!"

Jason immediately perks up. His eyes get big, his shoulders drop, and he gives Emmerson an anticipatory stare. The same look as a dog who hears the box of treats opening.

"N-nope. I h-have to take the sample first. You won't get it un-ntil afterwards."

He huffs, pouting, but appearing to consider his options.

"So, are you gon-na be good?"

He exhales, preparing himself for the ordeal. He nods, a little shaky.

Emmerson smiled, proud his plan worked. He realized that this is essentially a doctor bribing a child with candy, with some.. very abnormal extra steps.

"Sit down, I'll get the materials." Emmerson fished around his knapsack, finding a vial and a cotton swab. He looked over at Jason, who was sitting cross-legged on the floor, holding his ankles, tapping a finger nervously. Emmerson cackled at the sight of it. He was so terrifying earlier that day.

"You're h-hilarious," he giggled, settling down in front of the killer. Jason clearly does not understand why.

"Would you like to move the mask yourself?" Jason nods, avoiding eye contact. "When-never you're ready, then." Jason exhales once more. Very carefully, he unfastened the straps on either side of his mask, only the uppermost button remaining. Both hands pressed firmly against it, he slides the mask upwards, exposing his mouth. Parts of his skin were visible regularly: his neck and hands, specifically, although it appeared almost like an extension of his similarly dark clothing. With a portion of his face now visible, Emmerson is reminded of the strange, unnatural ash-colored complexion. The blackish-blue skin color, combined with the jaundicing of the nails and scleras, reminded Emmerson of the discoloration that occurs with necrosis; however, the skin appeared alive, other than its hue. Obviously, his entire body couldn't be necrotic, anyway. "Open up."

On his knees, Emmerson sat up to accommodate Jason's height. Emmerson gently swabbed the inside of his left cheek. He moved much slower than necessary, assuming Jason wouldn't notice. With the eye openings of Jason's mask now displaced, he couldn't see what the scientist was doing. Too curious to pass up the opportunity, Emmerson squinted, trying to inspect the inside of his mouth in the dim lighting. _Jesus!_ He was no orthodontist, but it was clear that there was something unhealthy going on in there. He crouched slightly, examining the roof of his mouth. He leaned back, sitting on his calves.

"All done." Jason slides the mask down, nuzzling his face into the mask before fastening the side straps. "H-hey, do you have supern-nu...um, extra teeth?" Jason nods slightly, his eyes looking upward, his jawbone shifting somewhat. Emmerson thinks he's running his tongue over his teeth, just to confirm. When finished, his hands find his ankles again, and his eyes rest on the 'doctor.' He is waiting patiently, but his eyes look very eager.

"Alright. Since you were such a good b-boy," he patted around in his new flannel's pocket. He had mixed feelings about it. Just about anybody would consider a piece of sea glass to be a trinket at best, especially if they weren't at the site where it was found. He wasn't sure what Jason would appreciate, but given that he did give Emmerson a rotting rabbit carcass, he didn't think he'd be terribly picky. He presented the stone in his palm. He stares down at it.

"When I was h-here b-before, I saw you h-h-had a couple of pieces on the mantel, but.. n-nothing this color, so.." Jason brings both hands to the mouth of his mask, the tips of his fingers tapping it before bringing both down, palms up and flat in front of him. It appears to be a practiced, purposeful gesture. He gazes at Emmerson with big, puppydog eyes.

"Ah.." he isn't sure what to make of the gesture. It didn't have an obvious meaning, but it surely meant _something,_ and he didn't appear upset or angry. Was he saying "thank you?"

"You, ah.. should put this somewhere." Jason nods, removing the glass from his hand. Stepping to the mantel, he peers along its surface, looking for a spot to place his gift. Emmerson stands next to him as he rocks slightly on his heels. He places it in the center of the largest blank space, quickly turning to Emmerson for approval. He smiles and nods, to which Jason pressed his raised paws against his chest excitedly. Based on Jason's placement, it seemed the arrangement of the objects themselves were determined by aesthetics, rather than signifying something greater. Still, it appeared very shrine-like. It did make him wonder: what were the rest of the objects from? Are they unrelated to any person in Jason's life, or were there others like him? And if the latter is true, then.. where are they now?

Much to Emmerson's surprise, he grabs his wrist and practically drags him over to the staircase. He didn't know where they were going, but there were only three options, and he wasn't sure which was the worst. He didn't like the implications of any of them.

The stairs squeaked under both of their weights. With every couple steps, Jason looked back to ensure Emmerson was still following. Not that he could leave when he had his wrist in a death grip. At the top, he turns to the right-- to the maintained bedroom. That was probably Emmerson's preferred choice, if he had to choose any of them.

In the bedroom, Jason motioned him to sit on the bed. Emmerson was a little unsure about it all, but Jason was insistent that he sit down. He awkwardly positioned himself at the foot of the bed, the quilts and blankets sinking down when he settled in. Jason rummaged through a bureau, producing a soft-covered binder. He brushed the dust off of it as he approached the bed, sitting next to Emmerson, nearly as close as the air. The clinical context in which they were often interacting with each other concealed the real degree of their size difference. Now, with Jason sitting so close to him, he was reminded of the morning when he reanimated and stole that kitchen knife. Emmerson was terrified then, and he was terrified now, well aware that this behemoth of a man could probably snap him in half. Right now, Jason seemed beyond friendly with him, but that didn't exactly put Emmerson at ease.

Jason opened the book, the front cover landing on his lap. He immediately recognizes that this binder is actually a scrapbook, although it looks like it was never quite finished. Jason flips through the pages, looking for something in particular. The pages had yellowed or dulled with age, the scent of lignin wafting into the air as they flipped. Many of the photos were quite old as well: they were in black-and-white. Jason did not linger on most of them, but could vaguely see that some were altered in ominous ways: faces or entire persons cut out.

He finally stopped on one: a group of girls, probably high-school aged, dated from the 1940s. He emphatically points to the leftmost girl before drawing his hands off of the binder. Emmerson picks it up to get a better look.

She looks a little unremarkable, if he's being honest. She had a pretty smile, though, despite looking a bit more demure than some of the other ladies. What caught his attention was her eyes: they were rather downturned, giving her despondent air in spite of her smile. They resembled Jason's left eye. Given this was a scrapbook in his own house, this woman was likely related to him. Beyond that, her hair was about shoulder-length and fashioned in loose curls, although it was a little messy compared to her companions' styles. It was also light and luminescent, and would most likely have been blonde in a color photo. Her nose was thin but long, and her lips were full, if a bit shapeless. Finally, a pair of thick-rimmed eyeglasses sat atop her face.

In other words, she looked fairly similar to Emmerson. The resemblance wasn't perfect, of course, but they did look vaguely similar, especially with their styling semblances.

"Is this your mother?"

Jason nods. He is fidgeting anxiously, waiting for some response to the image. But Emmerson had no idea what that response was supposed to be. He knew that the legends of the Crystal Lake murders focused on Jason, but the motivations for his murders were said to be rooted in the loss of his mother. Emmerson is sure that the relationship there is complicated, to say the least. But he doesn't know much else, and he doesn't know what Jason is expecting.

"She.. looks a b-b-bit like me, huh?"

Jason's eyes get wider at those words. He gives a very shallow nod, glued to every word and motion of his guest. Emmerson can feel his eyes burning through him.

"And, um.. this was h-h-her room, right?"

Another shallow nod.

..What more is there to say? Jason looks like he's ready for some explosive news, but Emmerson doesn't have anything to offer him.

Emmerson doesn't know who or what Jason really is. He's been trying not to ask himself that question too much, preferring to stay fixed in the realm of his research and what he can materially examine. He didn't know if it was possible to ascertain everything regarding the nature of Jason's existence. But right now, it seemed like he couldn't rely on data or science to help him. He only had legends, and the qualitative information he has gathered on this strange entity he's been calling 'Jason Voorhees.'

So, his mother apparently went insane and killed camp counselors as revenge for her son's death, which then prompted Jason's continuous murders. The first murder was in in the 1980s, and they keep happening, almost four decades later. If that motive really is accurate, then Jason must have been constantly mourning her, affected by a mental wound that would never heal. In reality, things were probably more complicated: legends and myths are often partially fabricated to make up for gaps in information that died with their subjects. But it was probably true that Jason was devastated by her murder, even if it was committed in justified retaliation.

Assuming he's been grieving this entire time, then it's probably safe to say that this is something he can never truly and fully move past. He is forever stuck in a void of his own despair, where life has no purpose except to serve a person who will never be able to praise you for your constant devotion. They can't even acknowledge it. So in such a position, what is the cure for that hopelessness?

If you can't move past it, your only choice is to reverse it: bring your mother back.

You can't really resurrect someone... well, that's allegedly what happened with Jason, but assuming that there's some other explanation, or at least that it's not possible to do the same thing, for some reason. Your next best thing is to find a substitute.

People do it all the time. When you can't get over your ex-lover, you get a rebound. When your beloved Whiskers dies, you get a new cat. It's easier than facing the harsh reality that you'll never truly get them back.

So.. Emmerson is a replacement parent? Is that what's happening here?

Jason is still staring at him. Would he keep doing it until he got a response?

No, no, no... Emmerson was _not_ on board with this. First of all, he thought Jason was a dead man. He wanted to cut him open and examine his entrails, and that is the only reason he 'helped' him in the first place.. Everything that happened after that initial goal has been unplanned. Secondly, as far as occupational aspirations go, being the adoptive parent of a serial killer was pretty low on the list. He isn't sure exactly what it'd entail, but he had a feeling he was better off not knowing.

Is this just because of how he looks? Had he really gotten that androgynous? Why God, why didn't he take up weightlifting like he knew he should've?

Or was he really fostering some sort of parent-child type of relationship..?

..That.. might have been a possibility. In spite of everything, Jason's dog-like innocence makes it difficult to interact with him on any other level than as a parent or guardian. And he was already used to acting like a parent in other aspects of his life. The practice of being a doctor and researcher only placed additional social power differentials between the two. It wasn't surprising that Jason would interpret that as parental in nature.

Regardless of Emmerson's feelings or his level of culpability in the situation, the real question is: did he have a choice in the matter? Emmerson may have had a monopoly on social power, but that didn't mean fuckall when Jason could peel him apart like a string cheese.

There didn't seem to be a way out of this. But could he be indirect, somehow? Well, maybe that was the only course of action here. What else is he gonna say? " _Yes, Jason, I am your mother now,"_?

Emmerson closed the scrapbook. He handed it back to Jason, who took it, but kept his eyes on his 'mom.' Emmerson moved very slowly, so as not to imply flight from the room. He walked around to the side of the bed and crawled back on top of it, slipping off his boots, laying over the blankets, head resting on the fluffy pillow. The pressure caused a puff of dust to rise out of the fabric, causing Emmerson to sneeze. Upon opening his eyes, Jason was staring back at him, eyes still bright but calmer than before.

Jason crawled further onto the bed, coming down next to his adoptive parent, his masked face level with Emmerson's shoulder. The misalignment was meant to simulate Jason as being more physically child-like, but it wasn't very effective, as his body was still twice the size of Emmerson, and his feet hung off the edge of the bed. He gently brought one arm around Emmerson's squishy body and squeezed, nestling into his side.

Emmerson imagined this was probably a reenactment of a common occurrence in the Voorhees home. He could imagine Jason having nightmares, or coming home from a hard day at school, and sneaking into his mother's room for solace. He couldn't have known that it was just as often for his mother's solace.

He brought a soft arm around Jason's back, squeezing him lightly in return. The light was rapidly draining from the room. He was tired, but doubted he'd be able to sleep in these circumstances.

How did it all come to this? He wanted this to be over. Any reasonable person would've ducked the fuck out long before now, but Emmerson had something to prove to the world. He needed to finish his research. Thanks to Jason, he really did find some extremely interesting results, and was not willing to throw that away. Even if it meant he had to do.. er.. whatever he was doing right now. Just get this all done, and then he can piss off out of Crystal Lake and never come back.

Jason might be pretty upset about that, but.. it's not like Jason is his responsibility anyway. Maybe he did give off the wrong impression, even if it wasn't his intention. He couldn't help that he was so used to acting like a mom. He still hadn't seen Jason actually murder someone, but assuming he really was a murderer, he was not sure what his parental duties might entail down the line, but he was not curious to find out. And Emmerson had to be honest with himself: he could barely take care of himself, let alone a six-foot-six homicidal lunatic.

Wait, why was he worried about this, anyway? It's like he already said: Jason is a (presumably) homicidal lunatic. He shouldn't care about this so much. What he _should_ care about is how this will fare for his research. He does have to prove the existence of Jason-- or, at least, that there is a physical entity from which his organic samples were derived. It probably was not entirely relevant that the test subject is also the topic of a rural community's mythos. Probably an issue to worry about later, though.

The light was almost entirely bled out, leaving only a faint veneer over the room. He felt like he had been laying there, silent, for hours. At least Jason didn't talk, so he didn't have to worry too much on that front. He looked down at him, as subtle as he could, trying not to alert him. To his surprise and discomposure, he saw the flicker of Jason's eyes blinking.

Wow! Fantastic! So he wasn't even sleeping. Or at least, he clearly wasn't going to sleep right now. Wonderful. Here he was, trapped in the unrelenting icy embrace of a psychoneurotic who was monitoring his every movement, and would probably continue to do so for as long as they were here.

He had a feeling this would be a very long night. 


	14. Chapter 14

Aspen McAskill was born in a very small community on Crystal Lake. To call it a 'town' would be a misnomer: it was moreso a collection of families, congregated into a loose-knit neighborhood. There was a single convenience store and a small school, the latter of which functioned more like an all-day study hall than an actual school. Children simply came with textbooks and were expected to read. Nearly all other services had to be acquired outside the community, in a neighboring town. As expected, many of the residents traveled outside for employment.

Aspen was always a peculiar child. Their parents remarked how terrified they were of sleepless nights and hell-raising temper tantrums when they had their dear child. But Aspen hardly ever cried. They.. didn't do a whole lot of anything. They were bizarrely stoic for an infant, not even requiring much in the way of stimulation or entertainment: they were perfectly content with just laying down in a quiet room.

Which is not to say there weren't issues. Aspen had trouble in language development. They seemed to understand language, but were reluctant to speak themselves. When starting school, their teacher was concerned that Aspen was not socializing well with others. They would sometimes do or say things that were rude or inappropriate without acknowledging that they were the wrong things to say. As Aspen grew older, they became progressively more pensive, lonely, and moody. They desired friendship, but did not know how to achieve it.

Sometimes, Aspen would try to get close to someone, or someone would try to get close to Aspen. But that person would become disinterested when they got to know them. Because Aspen didn't understand the rules of social interactions, they said things that made others upset. They didn't understand why they got upset. Aspen didn't know how to follow rules that weren't ever explicitly told to them.

It did not help that both of Aspen's parents commuted for work. They loved their child dearly, but no parent devotes themselves as much as they should have. Affection was sometimes pushed aside after long and strenuous days. Aspen's lack of emotional affect made them believe that Aspen was just not very interested in emotional connection. Aspen's father had an unpredictable schedule, greatly frustrating Aspen at best, such as when he would leave unexpectedly. At worst, it was devastating to them when finding out that their father would not be coming home tonight after all.

Aspen could only watch people leave them so much before they began to wonder what was wrong with them. Other people knew how to make friends. But Aspen didn't. Nobody told them. How could they do something that nobody instructed them in? It was like a big secret that only they were left out of. Nobody ever gave a satisfactory answer when asked.

Aspen began to believe that everyone would leave them eventually. Sometimes temporarily, sometimes permanently. In the summer, they'd go down to the shore of the lake. They'd sit there alone, and think about what to do to make people stay. Aspen would change if they could. But they didn't even know what they were supposed to change into.

_Why does everyone leave me?_ They stared into the water. It was murky and dark. It reflected back at them. They looked at their homely face, their crispy hair. _Why?_ Neither the lake nor the reflection answered the question. Both were frustratingly blank.

There were legends about this lake. Legends of a boy who drowned in it. He came back, and he killed many people. People in this community were afraid. But he never came to them. Maybe he thought they were good, or maybe they were special, or maybe it was something else. All of the adults seemed most concerned about the man's murders. Aspen thought that was so silly. What they wanted to know was, how did he come back in the first place?

Everyone is born with talents and gifts. Sometimes, those gifts are for things which are not seen. Most people can see a little bit of it. The subtle patterns, the flicker in their periphery, the tiny voice in the quiet room. Enough for a healthy balance of rationality and superstition. Sometimes, people are born with a terrible lack of those things. They can't see any of it. They fight against it. Aspen thought that was a sad, bland existence. And then there are those with the true talent.

Over different cultural contexts and historical periods, there have been variations of folk wisdom which tell how such individuals are marked. For many of such talented persons, this gift was said to manifest in some sort of deficiency in the realm of 'existence.' That is, a physical, material shortcoming. Blindness, deafness, and the like. But it was thought that the blind could see things which the seeing passed over, and the deaf could hear what escaped the hearing. For those with mental, emotional, and intellectual shortcomings, these were more open to variable interpretation. For example, a person in psychosis might be viewed as achieving divine intervention or suffering demonic possession (or invitation), depending on their social circumstances. The gifts which are attributed to such persons are variable, but that does not make them less 'real.'

Aspen gifts were first channeled into a very common outlet: contemporary religion. Like most in the region, the McAskill family was christian, although more culturally than anything. Still, Aspen's mother wanted them to know the bible. She would read to them, a little each night. There were some very long and dry passages, and others which were quite mature for the naive child. But Aspen loved to hear of miracles. Miracles were just magic under another name. And there was one verse in particular, which Aspen would take to heart and never forget: " _And whatever you ask in prayer, you will receive, if you have faith_ " (Matthew 21:22).

Aspen gazed into the lake. They watch it. Their reflection watches them. Is anyone else watching them?

_Please don't go. Please don't leave me. Please stay with me._

_Please don't leave me._

_Please don't leave me._

**_PLEASE DON'T LEAVE ME._ **

It's called different things, depending on your culture and your religion. The most common word would probably be "prayer," but a more accurate term would be "incantation." Aspen didn't know what they were doing. It was all instinct. But it was still 'real.'

It was just a little incantation at first. But Aspen did not get friends. They did not receive love. They did not find what they wanted. It's not like they consciously thought that if they kept speaking, it may come to life. Aspen had nothing else they could do, and they wanted to have faith. The incantation became an invocation. The invocation became a conjuration.

Aspen was, admittedly, not a very remarkable child. They were terribly average in most things: academics, athletics, and art. Where they weren't terribly average, they were mostly just terrible. Words like 'runt' and 'gremlin' were the best words to describe their shabby appearance. Even when Aspen's poor mother tried to fancy up the child, they resembled a possum decorated in frills and bows. And of course, their social skills were abysmal. But Aspen's talent was that they believed. They believed stronger than any other child. Their unrivaled naivety was their strongest attribute in this cynical world.

Aspen's piety came as a surprise to their parents. They were Christian, but not terribly devout. And yet, their child had established rituals of praying before meals, at bedtime, in the morning. They soon became interested in other religions, too. They wanted to know about miracles, magic, and fantastical stories: but not the 'fake' ones. They wanted the 'real' ones. And soon, they became enamored with witches. The women who lived in the forest. They were ugly and unlovable, but they were powerful. They could get what they wanted through their magic. So maybe Aspen could become a witch. And Aspen could get the love they wanted with magic. The most important precept about using magic is that you must believe in it for it to work. Aspen could do that, if nothing else. They whispered their solemn utterances into the lake. They knelt on its shore to worship its earthly powers. They requested that the lunar and solar goddesses empower them with the gift of transvocation.

The family suffered an unexpected challenge when Aspen's mother fell ill. She found that at home, she was well. But whenever she tried to return to work, she would become ill again. The illness would always begin the same way: a few nights of insomnia would always predate the illness, followed by general malaise. Within a week, she would be incapacitated by nausea, vomiting, coughing, and fever. The doctor could not tell her what was wrong. The illness would subside within a couple of days at home, but always return. She had no choice but to quit her job for her health's sake.

It made things a little less comfortable in terms of the family's standards of living. But it was liveable. Before long, Aspen's father became ill, too. The same symptoms, the same timeframe, the same circumstances. Doctors still couldn't find the cause. This was a big problem for the McAskills, who were already of modest means before their illnesses. Aspen, ignorant of matters such as finances and responsibility except in an abstract sense, was elated by her parents' increased presence. They no longer had to be alone. They were together. All of the time.

Except, the illness which plagued the McAskills did not stop there. Others in this community would become ill as well. An older woman who was once Aspen's babysitter, some of the local children, and seemingly random individuals without clear connection to the family. Some became concerned that the community was developing an epidemic. Still, doctors remained stupefied by the disease and its extremely bizarre nature. The McAskill couple recovered when given sufficient time at home, but relapsed when resuming their normal activities. However, this was not the case for other afflicted patients. They did not respond positively to bedrest nor pharmaceutical treatment. From an epidemiological standpoint, there was no indication as to how the disease spreads. There were concerns that Aspen would also become sick, living with two affected parents. This was an even greater worry when children in the town fell sick. But Aspen remained healthy. Most of the patients had had no recent contact with each other.

The situation did not improve. One patient eventually died after their condition worsened, culminating in a coma. Because of the odd epidemiological patterns, medical practitioners were skeptical of the illness being the result of bacterial or viral infection. One thought was parasitic or fungal infections resulting from a theoretical, unknown endemic organism. This might also explain why some households, such as the McAskills, had more than one affected individual. Believing that some constructional defect might contribute to the growth or inhabitance of such pathogens in the affected homes, inspections were done to find either a shared architectural flaw, or the presence of the noxious organism itself. Neither were found.

In the absence of evidence for any other previous explanations, and fearing that the disease may continue to spread to others in the community-- or worse, spread to other communities-- an evacuation was instituted to protect healthy individuals, after which, the residents were quarantined. Aspen did not want to evacuate. They wanted to stay with their parents. They said that they would be okay. Even if they got sick, it was better than leaving. But Aspen was known for being needy and nervous-- and of course, a nine-year-old child could not be expected to understand the seriousness of the situation.

Following evacuation, the condition of the inflicted residents immediately deteriorated. Within only a week, all afflicted individuals became comatose, without indication of recovery.

Aspen got the news from a police officer they didn't know. He told them that their parents had 'passed away.' They didn't understand. "Passed away to where?" Aspen asked. The older man, a complete stranger to the child, didn't know how to answer that question. He was forced to tell them that it meant that Aspen's parents had died. The word, 'died' felt so strange to both of them. 'Death' was such an abstract concept to a child who had never had to encounter it. But they knew that it meant they were gone. They left for good. They weren't coming back. Aspen asked him why this happened. The officer told them that their parents went into a coma, caused by an unknown illness. Aspen didn't understand the answer, and the officer didn't understand the question.

It was not difficult to infer the meaning of it all. There were a few people without Aspen's community who they did not know very well, but they presumed it wasn't impossible that they had contact with them at some point. Most of the afflicted were people who Aspen had physical contact with: their parents, their babysitter, their classmates. Aspen began to wonder: could they themself be the plague carrier? Could they be the means of infection? It would explain the strange patterns of infection, the way it didn't seem to spread directly from the afflicted to the healthy. But why was it centered inside them? And why weren't they affected by it themself?

It couldn't make sense from any rational perspective, but Aspen never approached anything from a rational perspective. They prayed that they might be granted a way to stay with their loved ones. Mom and dad got sick soon after that. And they were all together for a while. They were okay, so long as they stayed home. But it wasn't the home that was keeping them healthy, considering they later died in it. It was Aspen. The more time they spent away from the child, the sicker they became, until Aspen was eventually evacuated, which ultimately killed their parents.

The disease guaranteed that people stay with Aspen, lest they become deathly ill. It was the metaphysical equivalent of demanding love at gunpoint. It could work in a theoretical sense, but it was not what Aspen had wanted. In their childish, selfish desperation, they might have actually accepted such a curse if directly offered. But after what they had lost, they now knew what a mistake that would have been. It was a cruel joke that the watchers had played on them. Aspen didn't know who had done this. The angels could have been trying to teach them a lesson, or a demon hoping to indulge in their despair. It could have been Yahweh, who was angry for their idolatry and witchcraft. But it ultimately did not matter. No matter the source, their mortal body was now imbued with this hellish disease. Aspen knew that the only way to rid themself of it was to stop believing in it. But how could they do that? It was now 'real.' It killed their parents: how could something that kills not be 'real'? 'Fake' illnesses don't kill. They wanted to disbelieve, but they could not.

Aspen ran away from their foster home. It was the only option. They knew that they would continue to hurt others so long as they lived with them. They departed into the forest. The same forest that might have sparked the origination of the curse. They knew of the legends of this forest. It's the same as the lake. That there's someone or something skulking around, looking to harvest the souls of trespassing sinners. Aspen figured the legends were probably 'real.' And they were a sinner, so they would lose their life. That was okay. It's not like there was much reason to live now anyway. In the case that the legends were not 'real,' then they would be able to live out their life in the peace and solitude of the abandoned forest, unable to hurt or be hurt.

Aspen had nothing except the clothes they were wearing. They were woefully underprepared for their relocation. Most 9-year-old American children don't have a great idea as to the many difficulties associated with independent living, let alone independently living in a forest. After only a night, Aspen began to question their decision. Their resolve to make their excursion into the woods was garnered in a heated home, with a full stomach. Now, they were hungry. The cold, autumn air bit at their face, and made it difficult to sleep. They created a sort of makeshift bed out of leaves and vegetal debris, hoping it would act as a cushion. It was not nearly as comfortable as they had envisioned. Deprived of the most basic needs, Aspen wanted to return. Their foster parents weren't very friendly, and Aspen would never be able to hold their hands or give them a hug. But at least they would have a 'home.'

Ultimately, Aspen's fear prevented them from returning. How long could they avoid touching someone? When they did, that person would have two options: stay with Aspen forever, or die. Their foster parents were informed that Aspen was touch-averse. But accidents happen. It was only a matter of time. So Aspen had to stay in the forest. They laid down on their leaf-bed for the second night. They really were a witch now. A real and 'real' witch. Ugly and unlovable and living in the forest. So in a way, Aspen had fulfilled their dream. They took solace in that, at least. Maybe someday, they would die and haunt the forest, too. Maybe they'd be a vengeful spirit and put their own curses on people. Aspen isn't sure what those curses would be, since they didn't actually want to hurt people. They giggled, thinking of the fun tricks they could play on people. It helped ease them to sleep on the cold ground.

***

When Aspen woke up, they were not in their home. Wait, what was 'home?' Their foster home? Or their leaf pile? Well, regardless, it was not either of those places. Wherever this was, it was dark. They were laying on a sleeping bag, but they were inside somewhere. It looked a bit like a cave: the walls were dirt, and felt soft and slightly damp. There were miscellaneous items all around them. None of them were Aspen's. Tools, trash, electronics parts, jewelry.. a knife.

Aspen was nervous. They called out into the cave, but received no answer. So they stood up, plodding through the tunnels unsteadily. Their head felt light and fuzzy, like it was full of cotton candy. Their stomach growled, thinking of spun sugar. Hanging from the ceilings were strips of gauzy fabric, with small, tooth-like objects tied to or threaded through them, while seemingly random objects cluttered the floors and embedded the walls.

At the end of the tunnel was a large room, similarly adorned and cluttered. In the center was a man of considerable size, dressed in tattered, darkly-covered clothing. He wore a hood and a white mask, which only showed his eyes. He appeared to be cleaning some type of indistinct animal carcass. Aspen stood there, frozen in terror as the man looked up from his work, making blank eye contact. After holding for a few seconds, he unceremoniously returns to the butchering.

Aspen did not understand. They assumed that they were brought here by this man. But he seemed entirely disinterested in their presence. Why bring them here, then? Were they allowed to leave? And could they come back? Aspen had many questions, but received no answers. In fact, the man did not speak at all. He would occasionally nod or shrug, but never spoke. His motivations were fairly uncomplicated. Firstly, he had no interest in child-killing. Secondly, entering this area was a well-known taboo. If a child was able to do so unfettered, then they either had nobody to stop them, or were intentionally running from something. He could sympathize with both possibilities. He assumed that the child would eventually leave when they discovered he was a murderer, if not before. He and his dwelling-place were rather unsettling to people in general, let alone to a child.

Ironically, Aspen was very puppylike at the start. Following the man around, begging for attention. What else would they do? It's not like they could go to school. He mostly ignored the child, until an outsider ventured into the camp. There was nothing unusual about him or his death: he seemed a drifter, and he was stabbed to death. Aspen, constantly attached to the forest-dweller, witnessed the event. It was then that the pieces fell into place. This man was the subject of local folklore. It would explain his peculiar behavior and his existence in the forest. And if the legends were true-- Aspen knew they were, of course-- then he was not a human. He was an emanation of the collective cultural tensions between sex and violence, the discomfort around those who deviate from the socially-acceptable norm, and the shame and secrecy that surrounded the events of one tragic and short life. Aspen believed he was 'real' with all of their little heart. But his physicality did not depend on the laws of 'existence.' It was contingent on the propagation and validation of his corpus, in all of its 'true' and 'false' permutations. It should've been obvious to Aspen! They thought what a stain on their witchdom such an overlook was. 

The important part was that an entity which did not operate within the sphere of existence could not 'die' in a physical sense. So, he could not become sick. He could not be affected by Aspen's curse. Aspen began to wonder whether their nameless puppeteers had intended to act as a mediator between the two fates, or if it was simply an unexpected development to their entertainment. Maybe some demons hoped that they might bolster each other's killing potential. Or maybe it was an angel, trying to usher Aspen away from where they could do harm. Regardless, Aspen had someone who they could be with, forever, and never have to worry about leaving through death or other means. This guard of the forest could not speak, would not show his face, and killed innocents for the crime of trespass. He was not ideal. But Aspen hadn't the luxury of choosing their companions. And they had more in common than Aspen would have initially thought.

How does one make cotton candy? Aspen had seen the 'machines,' but they were nonsense. How does sugar, in its heavy coarseness and grit, become something so soft, so light, so fluffy? Aspen knew the answer: it was magic. They knew it from the very beginning. To them, cotton candy was always a symbol of the transformative power of that ancient art. And with that in mind, it was obvious why the confection was popular among children. Because people lose that creative wonder in the process of becoming an adult. The cotton candy is no longer magic. It's just sugar.

It is a slow and painful process, to which nobody is immune. Aspen themself was no exception. They could feel the tweezers in their ears, in their nose, in their mouth, in their eye-sockets. Pulling out the candy, one thread at a time. With each removal, Aspen felt themself become a little more empty, and a little more bitter.

But the forest guardian practically _was_ cotton candy. Aspen didn't have to worry about losing that part of themself with him. The guardian popped open Aspen's skull and stuffed their head full of fairy floss, nearly overflowing. Sometimes it did. It always pressed against the inner walls, tangled up in their brain matter. It hurt. But even if he couldn't 'die,' he could cease to be 'real.' So Aspen wanted to have enough cotton candy to construct him all on their own, if need be. Such a thing is only possible for the most powerful of conjurers, if they 'exist' at all. But Aspen was determined to never lose their 'Puppy,' even if the whole world were to forget him. Aspen had nobody else.

That was the name that Aspen chose for him. 'Puppy.' Aspen always wanted a dog, and now they had one. He was very doglike, and not really a human anyway. They later discovered his name in life was "Jason Voorhees," elucidated while exploring his childhood home. But he would always be 'Puppy' to Aspen. 'Puppy' was a piece of Jason which was hidden deep within the repository of his corpus, and which was perhaps only 'real' when discovered by Aspen. Thus, even though Puppy was Jason, Aspen did not believe it would be accurate to call him 'Jason,' because Jason is not Puppy. Puppy would always be Puppy. Aspen did wonder where this piece came from. Was it created by them? Or was it written into 'reality' by someone who knew Jason when he 'existed?' It didn't really matter either way, though. Either way, he was 'real.'

Aspen would spend ten years in the forest. People came and went. All kinds of people of different colors and shapes and origins. They had different hopes and dreams. Some came with their families, who they lovingly constructed over decades. Some came with their friends who they'd known since childhood. Some came in pairs, convinced they'd be together forever. And some came completely alone. They were all so unique, no two were ever the same. Aspen remembered each and every one. But one thing was always the same: they never stayed.

Sometimes they left, usually in a frantic rush. If not from Puppy, then from something else they viewed as supernatural. But most of them died.

That was the nature of this relationship. Puppy could not accept the outsiders, and Aspen wanted love. They were fundamentally at odds with each other, their goals and dreams and life purposes constantly working to undermine the other's. So they hated each other. But there was no other one. So they loved each other. They only had each other. 


	15. Chapter 15

The hospital was so spooky at night. Aspen was never afraid in the forest or the tunnels or anywhere else on the lake, regardless of what anyone said about it. It was home. But this place was practically the polar opposite of home. Everything was white or chrome, without any decoration or adornment: _sterile._ Indeed, the place smelled vaguely of disinfectant throughout. A strong, acrid smell that reminded Aspen of vodka. The outside world loved alcohol so much they were wiping down their furniture with it.

And that's not even getting into the people here. Usually, Aspen jumped at the opportunity to see people, because it was such a rare occurrence at home. But here, there was no possibility for the companionship that they craved. It was _sterile_ and _clinical._ Instead, Aspen had to constantly remind the people not to touch them, much to those peoples' annoyance. Did they not understand that Aspen was trying to save their lives? And through that, Aspen had to endure the constant repetition of '20 Questions' with every person who entered the room. They were poked and prodded with all sorts of odd instruments, and Aspen did not like these people nearly enough to let them jab them with such objects.

They sat up from the bed in the dimly-lit room, trying to support their upper body with their spindly arms. Their body was still quite sore from the ritual yesterday night. After a lot of shimmying and scooting, they managed to find the edge of the cot, and with one little leap, successfully fell onto the floor. They steadied their balance before approaching the door.

There was one thing they liked about this place: the socks. They were yellow and they had these pads all over them that made sticky noises wherever you walked. This must be how geckos feel, all of the time.

O'Ryan had told them that they were being kept here until the doctors could figure out what was wrong with them. Aspen knew they would never be able to figure it out, because the doctors were sterile. They lacked the ability to address that which doesn't 'exist' in the realm of the material world. Aspen would love to get better, but that's impossible. So there was no reason to stay here.

Despite the cop's words, the door opened with only a gentle _click!,_ no alarms, no bells, no lock. Aspen poked their nose out the door: it smelled of nothing except that disgusting vodka. They nudged it completely open, slipping out the crack, and clicking the door closed again. Both ends of the hallway looked basically the same, and Aspen could not remember which way they had come from. They had been on too many drugs. Assuming there was a 50/50 shot either way, Aspen randomly chose to go right, meandering down the linoleum floors. Aspen, who was used to the constant commentary of the forest and its watchers, found the place to be uncomfortably quiet. There was no sound, except for the indistinct electrical buzz emitted by the fluorescent lights above, and the popping noises of their socks.

Aspen reached what looked like a lounge or a parlor of some sort. They went left into it, then right down another hallway. They reached the end, where they could only turn right. Again, they reached an end, where the only option was to turn right. When they reached the opening, they saw.. the same lounge, from a different angle.

What was this labyrinthine place? Were they in hell?

Aspen could feel sweat forming on their back as they nervously scanned the empty chairs.

"Ha-ha." Aspen acknowledged the joke, but they heard no laughing. Still only the hum of the lights. They tried to construct a mental record of the places they had already gone as they searched for a way out. While doing so, they passed by the windows of other patients and gazed inside. Most had their curtains drawn to prevent nosy people (like Aspen) from seeing inside. But a few didn't. Aspen wondered what they had done to be sentenced to this abyss. Most of them appeared to be sleeping in their beds, apparently having given up on escape.

Aspen finally found it: a door marked "LEVEL 6." The Sixth Circle of Hell: Heresy. Yes, that made sense. Oh, cruel fate to be detained so deep in the christian underworld! But not for long. Aspen opened the door, hit with humid air. In contrast to the cold, dark interior of the circle, this stairwell was warm and almost obnoxiously bright.

So.. if this was Level 6.. they needed to go upstairs to reach the surface, right? But a sign indicated that upstairs was Level 7. Was it a trick? Aspen was skeptical, but cautiously followed the signs and descended down the stairs, sticking closely to the walls and holding tightly to the railings when they were available. At the conclusion of that arduous journey was the only escape: a door which read, "LEVEL 1." They must have to pass through here to truly leave.

Upon opening the door, they see a similar seating area to that on Level 6. Just a few meters beyond it was a desk, shaped like a half-circle. Behind it sat a rather bored-looking, dark-skinned man, scrolling through his phone. When the door clicked closed, he briefly looked up at Aspen before returning to his phone, but did a double-take upon realizing that what appeared to be a teenage girl, dressed in surgical socks and gown, was heading for the exit.

"Excuse me, miss!" He stood up, dropping his phone in the process. "Miss! Are you alright? Where are you going?!"

Aspen's hand found the exit door's latch and grasped at it. They looked behind them at the frantic man, blank-faced.

"Home."

***

O'Ryan was the first to find out in the morning that Aspen had abruptly left the hospital at around 3:15 AM. Despite Aspen's own words that they were sick, the doctors could find nothing physically wrong with them. Aspen was suffering from some nutritional deficiencies of various types and degrees, but that was hardly a communicable disease, nor did it appear life-threatening. From a legal standpoint, Aspen was fully able to leave the hospital and/or decline treatment as they so pleased, and there was nothing that could presently be done about it.

They spoke to no-one before leaving, except to tell a desk receptionist that they were going 'home.' Where 'home' was was a mystery to the hospital. After all, officially, Aspen was homeless, and up until yesterday, had been missing and presumed dead. But, of course, O'Ryan had no doubts about where Aspen was going: the same place they'd been all these years.

This could pose future issues. They could return to the camp to retrieve them, but Aspen would probably make an effort to avoid being seen, or at the very least, decline to leave the camp again. In the worst case scenario, Aspen may relay what happened to their captor, and he might be looking out for their return instead. There was also the possibility that he might try to flee in that case, if he felt threatened enough by the investigation into the recent murder and disappearance. Granted, he hasn't seemed to ever have been threatened enough to leave before now.

Billie and O'Ryan both sat outside the back door of the latter's home, smoking cigarettes. Both started when they were younger, and both knew it was unhealthy, so they quit, but both of them really did not care right now. Both of them preferred menthols.

"Aspen said they didn't know anything about Noel," Billie recounted.

"Mmhm. Think she was lyin'?"

Billie shrugged. "Don't know what the reason could be for lying. They didn't try to lie about him killing Chester."

"True."

"But I don't know where to go now."

That was the question, wasn't it? Do they just survey the area until they find the killer's supposed home? Nobody else on the force would help with that. They all bought into the local legends-- they'd say it was a suicide mission. In their defense, it would be the killer's home turf. And with just him and Billie, it would almost definitely be suicidal.

"What about the suspect you were telling me about..? Did you ever follow up on him?"

Maybe they did have somewhere to go after all.

*** 

To Emmerson's surprise, he actually did sleep a bit that night. Unsurprisingly, though, it was not very well. He woke up several times throughout the night. The scariest was then he woke up short of breath because Jason was squeezing him too tightly. To his horror, he wasn't stopping. His hug got tighter and tighter until Emmerson could not breath at all. For the second time with Jason, Emmerson mentally performed his own last communion, telepathically sending his final goodbyes and recounting his life's regrets. _This is really how I go out, huh?_ When the pressure in Emmerson's head and chest became unbearable and his vision nearly faded to black, Jason finally released his grip, leading to a fit of coughs and gasps.

When he caught his breath, he gently asked Jason to be a little less aggressive with his displays of affection, which was received with only a nod. He was unsure of why that happened in the first place: certainly, if Jason was conscious, then he must have felt him stop breathing and begin struggling for air. But he didn't appear asleep, either. Everything was odd, but he had stopped trying to question some things about this situation long before now.

Once light was fully visible in the room, Emmerson decided it was time to leave. He looked down at Jason before moving or speaking, and sure enough, his eyes were half-open. He really hoped he wasn't like that the whole time.

Emmerson sat up slowly, stretching out his stiff muscles the best he could. Jason had him locked in one position through the whole night. Jason likewise sat up, curling into a cross-legged position and holding his ankles, anxiously awaiting for Emmerson to speak to him.

Emmerson looked over at him, his eyes wide and dewy.

"Uh.. did you.. were you.. staring a-at me a-a-all night?"

Jason nodded.

"Why?"

Jason made claws with his fingers pointing upwards and brought them closer to his chest. He then pointed two fingers at Emmerson, and then brought all extended fingers to his face, thumb pressed against the mask.

This was similar to what he witnessed last night. He did some very purposeful, practiced hand motions. Could this be sign language? Either way, Emmerson didn't understand it. Either way, he got confirmation that Jason was staring at him the entire night, which freaked him the fuck out.

"I-i'm sorry, I-I don't understand.."

Jason huffed slightly, his shoulders sloping downwards, but his eyes remained light and expectant.

"I-I, uh.. need to get back to my lab.." Emmerson looked away. It wasn't a lie per se, he really did have a sample to look at, but he didn't exactly need to do it now.

Jason genuinely looked a bit sad. Well, Emmerson was okay with him being sad. That was better than murderous. Emmerson slipped his boots back on as Jason watched him.

"In the meanti-i-ime.. you.. uh.." did he actually want Jason to come back anytime today? Or ever? Would it be better to tell him to just wait here..?

"Um.. just.. be yourself.. In the mean..ti-ime."

Jason nods dutifully in response. He seems confident that he can do that much.

As Emmerson heads down the stairs, he realizes that might've been a bad command. People seem to die a lot when Jason is being himself.

The door was wide open. It seemed to have a mind of its own. It no longer bothered him.

Still, he wasn't expecting what he saw just outside it.

Just some twenty or so feet away, a tiny, dark-haired figure stood amongst the fallen branches and dead leaves. Their round face was curled into a suspicious, disapproving glare, their coarse hair lightly dancing against their pale cheeks as the breeze blew against it. Most unusual was their garb: a hospital gown and surgical socks.

The figure just stared. Wasn't Jason supposed to be the only person in this forest? This couldn't be a camper-- not in that get-up. Then.. who, or what, were they?

"H-hello," Emmerson tried to shake the feeling of discomfort. He did just have a sleepover with a deranged killer. This little one shouldn't be anything to worry about. "Uh, do you need help? To go to the hospital, maybe?"

The little figure looked less angry, but more confused at the statement. It was only after he said it that he realized how stupid it was. They're wearing hospital garments, obviously that means that they came _from_ the hospital, not that they're going there. It's not like it's a uniform you have to wear to get inside.

"Doctor?" their voice was nasally, and coarse but high-pitched, like an anthropomorphic rodent. 

"H-huh?"

"Doctor? You're doctor?" they repeated in monotone.

"Oh, uh.. not exactly, but.." why did they ask that? Because he mentioned the hospital?

"Doctor heals Puppy?"

"..no, I-I'm not a vet, either.. Is your dog hurt?"

They shake their head. "Puppy." They point to the house. A puppy? In _that_ house?

Ah.

"Do you mean Jason?"

The figure frowns a bit at the name, but nods nonetheless. Yes, Puppy was a suitable nickname for him. But.. how does this person know him? And how did they know he was in that house? Surely they can't live here.

But, more imminently, the doctor issue. They asked if he'd healed Jason. Just now, or ever? It wasn't clear. This person's speech was kind of disjointed.. not that Emmerson would judge somebody for their speaking patterns. Either way, one thing was clear: this person had some familiarity with Emmerson that he was unaware of. And Jason was the only one who could've given them this information. Unfortunately, he had no idea _what_ Jason said about him. That he was a doctor..?

"Um.. yes, I-I've been.. running some medical tests with Jason. After I-I, ah.. healed him."

The small figure's face reset. They looked kind of rat-like. "Okay."

They didn't say anything else. They looked vaguely in Emmerson's direction, but didn't make eye contact. Was that goodbye? Well, they were still standing there. Did they just not know where to go from here?

They did something Emmerson could not have anticipated. Leaning in, the creature's nose was only a couple of inches from his chest. He heard them sniff him several times, moving across his torso as he watched, flabbergasted and feeling slightly violated. The figure then recoiled, looking up at him with a disgusted expression.

"You are weird." the figure told Emmerson. _What? After they just sniffed me?_

"S-sorry.."

"..is.. okay.." Their eyes narrowed afterwards, as if they weren't actually sure if it was okay. They moseyed past Emmerson towards the house. After only a few steps past him, the crunching of the leaves stopped, and he heard the creature growl something incoherent.

"What?" he turned to them. They were standing on the first step up into the house, hand resting on one of the support beams. Their frown had turned into an outright scowl, and their free hand balled into a tiny fist.

"Don't come back."

***

Aspen watched the 'doctor' walk off until he was out of sight. His clothes were.. well, they were just a flannel hoodie and some boots, but his flesh was something awful. It smelled like.. like the hospital. Like disinfectants and preservatives. It smelled like killing things that should be kept alive and keeping alive things that should be dead. It was _unnatural._

Yes, it was that aura that Aspen felt when he was passed out on their floor. Except, when conscious, it was less of an aura and more like effluvia. It should have been obvious, but Aspen was a fool. A fool! Oh, if they had not been careless, so air-headed, they could have put together the pieces, but they didn't. They could only hope that man hadn't caused irreparable damage yet.

They stumbled up the stairs into the house and almost instinctively headed to the tunnels before they were accosted with that man's vapors. It was lingering in here. Where was it coming from?

They approached the mantel. The mantel held Puppy's things. A few of the things were gifts from Aspen themself: a brown leather dog collar with an iron chain and a little bell was the first gift they had ever given him. It sat in the center, and it was the partial source of his nickname. Aspen scrutinized each and every object there, before noticing a piece of bright red sea glass. It emanated sacrilegion. They looked it up and down, turning it over with a gentle poke, careful not to pick up any of the poison. Red sea glass was rare, which made it all the more suspicious, but their examination found that it was just sea glass. It was not some type of disguised mechanism.

They wanted it out of this home, but they did not have a good reason to throw it out, except the sheer, rageful loathing they felt in this moment. Their seething was interrupted upon hearing heavy footsteps descend the stairs. When they turned, Puppy was there, head cocked.

"Pup! Pup! Pup!" they cooed, scampering to him, arms extended. Puppy was surprised to see Aspen acting so manic, but welcomed them nonetheless. Their fuzzy head nuzzled into him, just below his diaphragm. He patted them on the head in return before they reluctantly drew away, a mix of emotions clouding Aspen's mousy face.

Puppy wags a single index finger at Aspen and points at them. He pokes a thumb against the nasal bridge of the mask, then slides it to the cheekbone. **WHERE YOU YESTERDAY?**

Aspen had gone outside to wash the blood off of their body and clothes the night before yesterday, and did not return. They were gone for the entirety of the next day.

With flattened hands facing each other, he draws alternating circles in the air. **WORRIED.**

"Uu.." There is so much right now. Aspen raises their fists to their face, wiping their eyes as they feel tears forming in them, their face flushing red with embarrassment. "Outsiders.. took away.." Puppy's pupils dilated briefly at the mention of outsiders in the area. "Asked about.. Puppy's killing.. and.. and.. uu.." A couple of tears escaped, prompting Puppy to offer them his own hand to nuzzle for a change. Aspen rubbed their eyes again before leaning into him. "Said couldn't come back to Puppy! Gave drugs." Puppy's pupils dilated again, instinctively clenching his free hand. "Took to Pur-ga-tor-ee. Sixth Circle of Hell: Horsey. Am back now."

Puppy patted Aspen's head again, as if to say, _yes, you are back, and I'm so happy._ Aspen imagined the words, articulated from his cracked lips. They could almost hear it. They leaned into his hand, his calloused fingers running against their face.

"Puppy."

He tilts his head.

"Doctor. Doctor was here."

He nods, albeit a bit cautious.

"Do not allow it again."

Puppy is surprised, to say the least. He recoils slightly, watching his companion's face warp with distress. He tilts his head again, waiting for explanation.

Aspen tries to look for the words. It is so difficult to translate the infinities of the non-existent into the constrained languages of the existent. They shut their eyes tight, constructing the image against the abyss of their lids.

"He is.. the reverse-incubus.. The A-poll-yon.. desecrator of ar-cana.."

Puppy blinks.

"is a _scientist._ "

Yes. If magic is cotton candy, and the witches, such as Aspen, are cotton candy machines, then that would make the scientists like.. some kind of awful, nightmarish anti-cotton candy machine. A machine where you deposit magnificent fairy's thread, and it returns to you soulless refined sugar. This is the job of the scientist: to take the things of this world which are truly fascinating, and reduce their magic and charm to algorithms and formulas.

They would, of course, disagree, perhaps some preferring to depict themselves as the elucidators of 'truths.' But Aspen knew their nature. They fundamentally misunderstand what makes magic so wonderful. Magical phenomena are the result of the collective human experience. These phenomena 'exist' because humans collectively will them into 'existence.' That is why they are beautiful: they are literal manifestations of our interconnectedness. Even in the case of individual human practitioners, witchcraft is testimony to the transformative power of belief. In short: through belief, people can make any externality 'real.'

But scientists are more concerned with what 'is.' 'Truths,' if you will. There can be no belief. The collective consciousness is subject to biases and misinterpretations that must be systematically identified and removed. Where the magic is not eviscerated like a cadaver on the autopsy table, picked apart and butchered, it is simply rejected and thrown out.

And they had the _audacity_ to try to dream of using their obscene mechanisms to reify their domination over the 'natural world.' As if the 'natural world' were a separate sphere from that which humans occupy. Humans are just as much a part of nature as any other organism. The reign of scientific thought that has lasted at least since the Enlightenment was the final development of narcissistic anthropocentrism. The completion of the ouroboros.

This was simply another iteration of that narcissism. This scientist hoped to pick apart Aspen's dear Puppy, to break him down into his constituent parts. Try to explain how he 'exists' when he shouldn't. The elucidator's experiments could lead to one of only two results. Firstly, if he is competent, he will discover the 'truths' of Puppy's 'existence.' And Puppy will be reduced into a guinea pig to be cut open and inspected, so that the elucidators might find some way to take the world's miracles and use them for their own distorted purposes. Secondly, if he is incompetent, then he will not be able to disentangle the intricacies of magical 'truths.' And this will lead to logical inconsistencies in the universal framework, which can only end in Puppy's ultimate non-'existence.' Either way, Puppy is, in colloquial terms, absolutely fucked. And that means Aspen is, too, by extension. Not because this elucidator's work could change the tenets of their practice so fundamentally, but because they would lose Pup.

Hasn't that been the whole point of the past ten years? Pup.

Everything else is extraneous.

There was nowhere else to go if he was gone. Who would save Aspen then?

"Please," Aspen begged their Puppydog. He thought about, staring down at them, before his eyes narrowed. He shook his head, suddenly filled with emotion that Aspen did not anticipate.

"Will hurt you, Puppydog," Aspen continued their pleading, to no avail. Pup shook his head again.

He brought his hand up to his face, all of his fingers extended and splayed outwards. He pressed his thumb against his mask. **MOTHER.**

Aspen's heart sank. They involuntarily emitted a low, guttural noise from the base of their throat. That was why the doctor looked familiar. He resembled Puppy's mother.

"No.." Aspen barely squeaked it out. They knew it would be borderline impossible to convince him now. "Not Puppy's mother.. Not at all.."

He formed a fist with one hand and traced circles in the air with the other. **REINCARNATION.**

"NO! NO!" Aspen screamed at Puppy for the first time. He drew back instinctively, bringing his arms up to shield himself, pupils fully dilated. Even the watchers became quiet at the unexpected outburst. Aspen felt sweat forming on their forehead, and the stagnant air made it harder to breath.

"S..sorry.." they also stepped back, giving some distance between them. "Puppy.. Please let.. me.. handle.. this.." 


	16. Chapter 16

Pamela Voorhees was sixteen when she began working at a local diner in the summer of 1945. She was not a particularly unusual girl. She attended church regularly, was fond of The Andrew Sisters, and had a fair number of friends in her high school. She was average-looking as well, never having taken particular interest in excessive preening. Still, she grew up in a time when the value of a girl or woman was contingent upon her desirability to men. In part wishing for the affections that any person craves, and in part wanting to affirm her own worth in a misogynistic society, young Pamela was willing to accept the love of any boy who was willing to grant it.

At her summer job, she came into contact with an assistant manager two years her senior by the name of Luis Magni, who had just graduated from her high school. Luis was rather stern, particularly towards his subordinates. But Pamela was not dumb. She noticed he was just a bit kinder to her than others, letting her mistakes slip by with less consequence and even covering for her when need be. Sure, he wasn't perfect. She would have preferred someone a little less uptight, a little more loving. And not so dorky-looking. But she dreamt of being cared for, of an idyllic, post-war American dream which loomed just over the horizon.

Luis did not deny his attraction to Pamela, but he was also not one to mince words. He was a Crystal Lake native, but unlike many of his peers, he wasn't content with the rural agrarian lifestyle that typified the area. No desire of inheriting the family burden of a back-breaking bucolic profession. He dreamt of leaving for New York, or maybe even moving out west to Colorado or Texas or anywhere but here. Armed with the unconventional charm which accompanied an acrid, sardonic sense of humor, he dreamt of making it in radio-- undeniably a pipe dream if he stayed in Crystal Lake. 

In other words, his relationship with Pamela was temporary. She was not the first, and she would not be the last, unless she planned to leave her only home. Of course, that's not what she wanted. And in defense of Luis, he was astonishingly honest about his plans and intentions. He never planned to trick her or lead her on. But she was convinced that she would be able to change him. She believed that his dreams were the result of spirited youth, and he would surely realize the value in living out a traditional life with her. She had learnt both in school and church about the risks of premarital sex. She was told that it corrupts both your body and soul. But she loved Luis. It would not be so unjust if there was love. And she was told that the hormones released during sex would cause a bonding effect between the two lovers-- an effect supposedly most potent with your first partner. So surely, the bond would be very strong. It would make him realize that his home was here, in Crystal Lake, with her.

But he didn't change his mind. He liked Pamela very much. She was a bubbly, friendly girl. But he would not abandon his aspirations for any nice girl.

Her last chance came in October of that year. The rabbit had died-- she was pregnant. She told Luis, whose conscience forced him to consider the options. He did not want to leave behind his girlfriend, now pregnant with their child, to deal with the consequences on her own. He could marry Pamela, he could settle down in Crystal Lake, and live there forever. But he wouldn't be happy. And he didn't think he could make Pamela and their child happy, either. It wasn't the life that he wanted, and while he didn't know what life would have in store for the girl and child if he left, he didn't think the prospects were great if he stayed. He decided to take their chances. He was gone in two weeks. Pamela never saw him again.

Some girls during this time did get married while in high school. Likewise, some of those girls got pregnant. But it was different. They were essentially a family, but Pamela was not married. Everyone knew that child was illegitimate. The look of scorn from her peers, her family, even her teachers, made it clear that she had committed a grave moral failing. Having premarital sex is one thing: if you can hide that you did it, a woman could go on to get married, have a family, and live the dream, pretending to have been a virgin with little to no recourse. But there was visible proof of Pamela's transgression on her own body, and it only grew with the passing months until it was impossible to conceal. By summer, there would be living, indisposable proof of her sins.

On the 13th of July, 1946, Jason Voorhees was born. Pamela immediately picked up that something was wrong when she was not allowed to see the baby immediately after labor. A doctor confronted her with a flurry of questions: who was the father? Was he healthy? Do you use any drugs? Do you drink? How was your diet and exercise during pregnancy? She was terribly confused. It was only after the fact that she learned doctors were beginning to think that certain environmental factors could cause birth defects. Pamela, of course, did not consume drugs or alcohol-- well, she did smoke, but doctors were convinced it was a perfectly healthy practice. In any case, they explained to her that Jason seemed to have a congenital physical malformation, caused by some latent "bad genes" possessed by both of his parents. They could not explain beyond that, and it was unknown how the deformity would affect his development.

As Jason progressed through infancy and reached childhood, his intellectual development was more or less normal. He was neither gifted nor underdeveloped in the realm of basic academics. Nonetheless, his highly visible facial disfigurement led to a variety of assumptions regarding his mental and emotional faculties, which affected the treatment of both himself and his mother. For Pamela, she was mostly subjected to looks of pity. She was rarely commended for her achievements or her resilience in providing for herself and her child. Instead, she was treated as the tragic victim of fate, rejected by her lover, cursed with an unlovable child.

The attitude towards Pamela did little to help her already troubled position-- strangely enough, despite their insistence that she should be viewed as a sad, fallen woman, these people did little to materially assist her. She lived with her family during pregnancy and for a while afterwards, although they judged her harshly, regarding her as a disgrace, a slut, an unmarriageable good-for-nothing. The birth of Jason only further deteriorated their relationship as the stress of caring for a child took effect. She wanted to move out, but could not do so for nearly three years following his birth, as she had difficulty finding a job which would accept the precarious circumstances of a single mother, and in finding an apartment which was both affordable and accommodating. Afterwards, she had little contact with the rest of her family. Some of her friends had moved away after graduation, hoping to find bigger and better things than Crystal Lake. Others simply drifted apart as both they and Pamela traversed down separate paths.

It caused something very strange to occur in young Pamela. She had little support in her life. She did have Jason. But she also saw Jason as the catalyst for her life's misfortunes. If she had not gotten pregnant, she would not have suffered social ostracization, and she would not have to struggle so much. She could have lived a relatively normal life, and she could've moved on. But she couldn't move on, because she lived with a physical reminder of her mistakes. She knew this was irrational: Jason obviously had no say in the matter. She tried to force out these awful feelings, these terrible thoughts which made her resent the only person left in her life. Her only child. But if she blamed herself for her misfortunes, then she might fall into despair, dooming both of them. She could not blame the culture which branded her as worthless for committing a victimless 'crime,' because that enemy felt both intangible and insurmountable. In the end, it was so much easier to blame Jason. 

In a vacuum, Jason probably could've grown up to live a rather unremarkable, but normal, life. But children don't grow up in vacuums.

The stress of her unhappy life mixed with insufficient emotional support meant that she relied on Jason for her comfort. From a very young age, he was expected to be emotionally available for the sake of his mother. But no four-year-old can fully understand the emotional issues of a financially destitute single mother in the 1950s, let alone know how to alleviate the suffering of such a woman. His attempts were always inadequate, aggravating her indignation towards him. Eventually, her bitterness would overflow, and she began to take out her anger on the perceived source of her misery. These incidents were always followed by extreme guilt when she realized that she was verbally and emotionally abusing her only child, and her only support. She would barrage him with incessant apologies, repetition of promises which had already been previously broken, and demeaning herself as a terrible mother; ironically, the latter of which only led to Jason having to reassure her more.

Jason had his own means of rationalizing the abuse. His mother worked very hard for them, and she needs a lot in return. If she's angry with him, then it must have been because he deserved it. Everyone says you're stupid and ugly and worthless, so it must be your fault. Maybe that's not your mom at all: maybe there's some spirit inhabiting her body when she's mad. You need to be nice when she's mean, so you can help her fight the demon. These justifications would follow him forever. There was nothing his mother could do that he wouldn't excuse. It was easy to blame himself when he, too, had nobody else to love him.

Or rather, with the potential to love him. There was only so much that could be done and said to a child without them reaching the conclusion that they are not loved. He wanted his mother to love him so desperately. Eventually, he noticed that his words would never ease his mother's pain. Sometimes, it would even make her more upset. Not talking might not make her better, but at least it won't make her worse. He made it a habit to be quiet.

Initially, this was hardly noticed. Jason was always a rather shy boy. He would not speak when scolded by teachers, but this isn't particularly unusual. But over time, he learned not to speak to any authority figures at all. Or to those who were mean to him, or even to those he perceived as mean. And that was a lot of people. _Don't talk back. If you don't say anything, you can't make it worse. It's safer this way. Maybe they'll love you if you don't say anything. Please don't be mad at me._

The child psychologist called it "elective mutism." A condition in which a person is physically capable of speaking, but feels that they cannot or should not. Pamela couldn't understand. Why was this happening? He clearly could talk, so why wasn't he? Why was he 'choosing' to do this? Just to make her life worse? She now had to deal with the additional stigma of having a psychologically disturbed child. He now did have a mental condition, even if not one he was born with. And it was something that was fairly obvious with even minimal interaction or observation. Combined with his physical appearance, Pamela could feel the intensification of both pity and judgement. Or at least, she perceived it. With it came an intensification of everything else: the abuse, the dependency, the apologies, the longing. Shortly before his death in 1957, Jason had mostly stopped speaking altogether.

***

On a whole, people are hungry to belong. 'Belonging' has more to do with simply conforming to the expectations of a given culture or society. 'Belonging' means being socially recognized for your conformity. Without being recognized, your conformity means nothing. Even those within 'non-conformist' subcultures and countercultures generally desire confirmation of their fellowship within their respective communities. You are not inherently anything. Your personality is constructed by the perception and judgement, implicit or explicit, of who you are to others.

There are two options for accomplishing one's social position: firstly, a person can work to be perceived as a given trait by outwardly performing acts associated with it. A man who wishes to be viewed as masculine might construct his appearance, voice, and attitude to conform to stereotypes about traditional masculinity. But this can only go so far: some people are unwilling to change certain aspects about themselves, while others are fundamentally unchangeable: height, for example. These perceived inadequacies can cause insecurity as to one's suitability within a given role. This is where the second tactic appears: negative judgement and rejection of those seeking recognition within the same social role. By pulling others down, you can elevate yourself. Men, for example, do this frequently when attacking the real or perceived femininity of other men. It reaffirms their own belief in the sanctity of their desired social role, and by extension their place within it.

Adults often forget the mentality of childhood. Children are ignorant as to the workings of the world, but they aren't idiots. They are extremely sensitive to their own conformity within a social structure. They are keen to know and understand who they are, and what that identity means within a given context. The male child may reject a particular toy on the grounds that it's "for girls." A rather banal example, but children can be ruthless. Unlike adults, who are expected to regulate their behavior to law and social taboo, children have a poor understanding of consequences, responsibility, and similar concepts. But this doesn't mean they stop trying to meet real or perceived social expectations. 

Jason was a very easy target for his peers to bully. You did not need to know anything about him to do so. His appearance was immediately alarming, and there was nothing he could do to change it. Being harassed at school worsened issues at home, which in turn exasperated his anxiety-induced mutism, in turn augmenting the school harassment. And so on and so on. In time, it became evident that Jason did not have friends to support him, his father was absent (not even known to Jason himself), and that he had an unhealthily strong fixation on his mother. He was known as emotionally erratic, though not dangerous-- in fact, stereotyped as weak and too submissive for a boy. As such, there was practically a laundry list of taunts to hurl at Jason and emotional vulnerabilities to exploit, either for entertainment or validation.

At ten years old, there was one particularly vile incident which would have forever defined Jason Voorhees among his peers, if not for his drowning the following year and his murders in the coming decades.

A certain clique of boys in the same grade as Jason had routinely tormented him on the basis of perceived failures regarding his masculinity (or lack thereof)-- sissy, faggot, and so on. Gender, as a fairly fundamental aspect of a person's self-perception and the identity they project to others, can be very painful when invalidated. Jason would do anything to stop the ridicule. He had given up on being loved by his peers. By this point, he only wished to be left alone. He was given the opportunity to prove them wrong. He was told to meet them at a particular bus stop that autumnal evening.

This happened to be the bus stop which Jason took to school, so he was familiar with it. It was situated in an area of town that was comparatively closed off, as the road terminated in a dead-end. Upon arrival, it had gotten quite dark. He spotted the boys from this group waiting for him under a streetlight, looking like menacing, faceless silhouettes. Upon reaching the four classmates, their circle formed a gap in the direction of Jason, symbolically offering him 'belonging' in the group. One of them held a small dog.

It was a bit of a chubby dog. It was either grown and simply on the smaller side, or it was a puppy. Its fur was short and black, its head topped with two floppy ears, its back ending with a curly tail. The muzzle was rather scrunched-up, accentuated with two big, glassy eyes. It might be described as "ugly-cute."

One of the other boys hands Jason a pocket knife. The type of gift a young boy might get from his father. He said that Jason could prove that he wasn't a sissy by killing this dog.

Jason cowered at this statement, clearly wanting to back out.

Another boy said that it was no different from hunting deer. And that animals are killed all of the time for food. It was the same thing. Jason understood that that was true to some degree. But it felt completely different with this defenseless, pudgy, wide-eyed dog staring at him with such unsuspecting trust.

But he also didn't want to be this way anymore. He wanted to prove himself.

Jason draws the knife from its handle. All of the boys become jumpy at the sound of the _click_ locking the blade in place. The boy holding the dog places it down firmly against the sidewalk pressing its paws down against the pavement. It is uncomfortable, squirming slightly. He looks up at Jason, waiting for him to begin. Jason kneels down and places a hand on the dog's shoulder. He isn't sure what spot to aim for.

He brings the knife down swiftly against the dog's hard skull, mustering all the strength he can manage. But Jason was not so strong back then. The blade pierces the skin, but does not break the bone. It yelps helplessly as it struggles, the other boys now scrambling to hold it down completely. Jason is pierced by the creature's scream, but it's too late. He can't stop now. He repeatedly strikes the knife into the dog's flesh, not allowing himself time to reconsider his actions. It continues screaming. Jason can feel tears welling up in his eyes as the animal begs for his mercy. He couldn't stop the tears from slipping out, but he could repress the sobbing. _You can't cry. They'll say you're a baby._ He does not stop until the puppy is silent. It felt like an unbearably long time. It could not die quickly, because of the relatively small, dull knife, and its vital spots being pressed against the concrete.

When it was silent and no longer twitching, Jason withdrew the knife, setting it onto the sidewalk, next to the body. He can feel blood, tears, and sweat running down his face. The other boys are wearing similar masks, although less dramatic than his own. Under them, their expressions range from disturbed to flat-out distraught. Jason looks mostly empty. He is too tired for anything.

He learned after the fact that the dog belonged to one of the boys in this group. He had very badly wanted a puppy, and as a reward for some unspecified behavior, his parents eventually got one for him. But a dog ended up being more responsibility than he was expecting, and he soon grew tired of it. He had tried to get it to run away, but it always came back. He figured the only way to get rid of it was to kill it. But he was too afraid to do it. He saw an opportunity with Jason, who was eager to please and easily manipulated. He didn't expect him to actually go through with it.

It took only a day for the rumor to spread throughout the school. _Jason Voorhees killed a dog. With a pocketknife. It took 20 minutes of stabbing. He didn't stop once._ The dog and knife were disposed of, and thus there was no physical evidence of the crime, but its sources made it trustworthy enough to the child audience. They speculated as to the reasoning-- apparently, the boy did not say he prompted Jason to do so, probably because he did not want anyone to suspect that he was unwilling to do it himself. This also meant that the incident was open to further conjecture as to its rationale. Various theories were presented: Jason doesn't have a conscience-- he was born without a soul, and that's why his face looks funny. Jason can't talk, so he has to use haruspicy to communicate with people. Jason was practicing on animals to prepare for when he moves on to people. Better not mess with him, or you might end up the same way.

Before, there were whispers and giggles, mocking and name-calling. Now it was all gone. He got stares and avoidance, but that much was tolerable. He didn't get bullied at his school again. He was not loved. He was not even liked. But they did leave him alone.

***

Pamela Voorhees spent most of the year working as a waitress. It wasn't exactly glamorous work, but it was something. Summers were different: she worked as a cook at the local campsite. She much preferred the campsite, as she didn't have to kiss the asses of everyone who walked through the door like at her waitressing job. Kids could be stressful in their own ways, but the most challenging aspects thereof weren't part of her job.

One issue was the hours of operation. The hours tended to be long, and with the time it took to travel back and forth from home, Jason ended being alone at home. It worried her that he might get himself into some trouble with nobody to look after him. In the worst case scenario, he could seriously hurt himself. He would also become quite anxious and agitated if she were away for too long.

The solution seemed perfect: enroll Jason himself into the camp. This way, he would still be able to have limited contact with her, and he would be monitored. Jason was much less enthused about the idea. He had only recently started being left alone at school. If he went to this camp, he'd be around new kids from different places: kids who didn't know how 'dangerous' he was. He was sure that they'd call him names and mock him, just like they used to do at school. But he didn't want to disappoint his dear mother. She was so excited about the idea. In her mind, it would work for both of them, and it'd be an opportunity for Jason to be around other kids his age. It'd be like exposure therapy. He'd be forced to talk to others, and he'd make friends, and find out that other people weren't so bad after all.

It did not quite work out that way.

Jason lacked the self-esteem to stand up for himself, or to even approach others. He didn't even have the ability to act like he had a modicum of confidence. His traumas may have well been listed as his forehead for all to see. And then there was the issue of his face. Everything seemed to work against Jason to make him the perfect target for the more vitriolic of the campers. Almost immediately, he began having to deal with the whispers and snickers of girls in the cafeteria, and the outright derision and insults of boys in his cabin.

He ended up spending much of his camp time with his mother, waiting for her to get off of work in employee-only areas or taking frequent trips to the cafeteria to see her when he became upset. The camp counselors didn't stop him: he appeared to be special needs, although they didn't know the particulars of Jason's mental health, nor his relationship with his mother. For Pamela, this was not a terribly ideal situation. Although the decision to enroll him was done for convenience more than anything, in practice it meant she had to be a worker and a mother at the same time. It was exhausting for her.

One particularly hot day, Jason had been waiting for her in a break room. When her break came, she was beyond irritated: by the heat, by her work, by the kids, and now she was supposed to spend her only respite comforting Jason. She told him that he was being much too reliant on her, and that he needed to go participate in camp activities, just like every other child.

And besides, the counselors decided to have the kids go canoeing today. Wouldn't that be fun?

Jason had no choice. He wanted his mother to be happy. So he complied, returning to the sweltering heat outside. The other children congregated around the pier, where counselors were dividing them into groups of four. At least they were assigning groups. Jason would never be asked to join by another camper. But he still felt an uncomfortable sense of foreboding as he approached, as if something were trying to tell him not to go. Something was trying to pull him away.

One of the counselors was a very short girl, only marginally taller than some of the bigger kids. She looked at Jason, giving him a slight, pitying smile.

"Jason," she called to him. Her voice was very high. "Why don't you join these boys?" she motioned to a group of three boys. He would've preferred to be with girls, honestly. But he didn't want to cause trouble for anyone. He just nodded, joining the three as they waited for a canoe to be prepared for them.

He didn't know any of the boys by name, although he'd seen them before. One had been very mean to him before, calling him a freak and pushing him around. His hair was pin-straight and silky black, and he was missing a front tooth. Another of the boys was the first's friend, although he hadn't had an encounter with him. Jason thought he looked sort of bird-like in appearance: tall with a sharp, straight nose. The third boy he had not seen, and was a little plain, other than being rather short.

The boy with the missing tooth scoffed as Jason approached them. The other boys seemed rather disinterested.

"Just don't give me whatever you have, alright, fuckface?" tooth-boy muttered. Bird-boy smirked, as if to agree. Jason did not respond. The boys knew he wouldn't. He rarely even spoke when asked to do so. It frustrated a few of the counselors, making them less sympathetic than others.

Jason was placed in the back, next to tooth-boy, while bird-boy and short-boy were in the front. He had never done anything like this, but much to his surprise, it was not too difficult. It was actually kind of nice: afternoon was giving way to evening, with fire-tinted waves bumping lightly against their boat. A shame the air was so sticky and stagnant. A shame he was with these people, too.

Tooth-boy had apparently gotten bored quicker than the others. "Anthony, have you met the camp's resident sideshow yet?"

The short boy looked back, looking bored of the canoeing, but even less thrilled with tooth-boy's antics.

"No." he turned back to the front, apparently not interested in either tooth-boy or Jason.

Tooth-boy frowned, lower lip curled up. "Yeah, whatever. Ant-man."

He turned back again, eyebrow raised. "Funny. Never heard that one."

"Heh," tooth-boy can't tell if he's being sarcastic or not. Either way, he wasn't satisfied with the lack of harassment going on in this boat. He places a hand on Jason's crown, attempting to turn his head over to himself and Anthony. He wanted to humiliate Jason, showing the deformed side of his face to the other boys. Of course, they had almost definitely seen it before this point, but that was not the point. The point was to forcibly show a part of Jason that he hated to everyone, so that tooth-boy could make a point of who was in control. Jason resists the clawing at his scalp, but tooth-boy is determined. Jason still says nothing, but the digging of tooth-boy's fingernails is enough to make him swat his hand off in a single forceful gesture: an almost extraordinary display of aggression for the young Voorhees.

It isn't like it really hurt tooth-boy. It was what the gesture meant symbolically. It was a display of dominance that put tooth-boy in a subordinate position relative to _Jason Voorhees,_ the circus freak. And he'd done it in front of two other 'men.' To let the gesture go retaliated would be an unprecedented stain on tooth-boy's masculine status.

He drew his hand back.

" _BITCH!_ " tooth-boy pushed Jason with all the force he could muster. It was enough to send Jason head-first into the lake, breaking the surface with a loud, cutting strike. Jason frantically grasps at the boat, panic audible in his gasps. Bird-boy laughs at the sight, tooth-boy smiling at his re-assertion over him.

"God, Edwin," Anthony rolls his eyes, his stare shifting from the struggling Jason back to Edwin, "you're just.. such a fucking asshole."

"Whatever, dude," Edwin laughs, likewise shifting away from Jason. "It'll teach him to mess with me." As far as Edwin was concerned, Jason needed to learn his place. He struggled a little more, but his stamina was wearing thin. He scratched at the canoe a few more times, slowing with each reach, gasps becoming more laboured and interspersed. Bird-boy watched, his expression turning from perverse delight to horror as the boy went under, bubbles rising to the surface instead of his body.

"Ed, I think.. I think he's really in trouble, man," Bird-boy whined as he stared at the bubbles, which were rising more and more infrequently. Both Edwin and Anthony turned back to the spot Jason had fell in, watching with increasing worry as the boy ceased to resurface.

"...Seriously, do something!" Anthony looked between bird-boy and Edwin, waiting for either to do something, _anything_ , well aware that now, every second brought Jason closer to demise.

"N-no, I can't! I can't swim! Not this far out!" Edwin cried, beginning to realize the severity of the situation. "A-Adam! You have to.."

Bird-boy nodded, immediately diving into the water. The surface remained still and calm. After some 20 seconds, small bubbles began to dot the surface, shortly followed thereafter by a lone Adam.

"I can't find him.." he panted out.

"Keep looking!" Edwin yelled, panicking.

Once again, Adam took a dramatic breath before he dived under. He was under for a similarly long time, before returning to the surface again. He did not say anything. He simply looked at the two boys, waiting for some kind of reassurance or command.

Jason was nearly to the floor of the lake. There is no appropriate way to describe the feeling of drowning, because there is no comparable sensation. When his useless gasps failed to bring him air, he swallowed brackish water. It pressed against his stomach. It made him want to vomit. Paradoxically, the lack of air made his lungs feel as if they could explode. He waved his arms in vain, in hopes that he might find the surface, or an object to grab hold of, or anything that might make him safe again. He was afraid. He didn't want to die here. The water was dirty and cold, and he was alone. Opening his eyes for a final time, he can barely see the sun breaking through the lake's darkness. It seemed to be calling for him.

Adam crawled back into the canoe. "W..what do we do?" He looked at the others.

"I.." Edwin searched for the answers that did not come. He knew that this was his fault. "I didn't.. I didn't mean to kill him! I just.." he felt tears coming to his eyes. He didn't even know how to articulate how he felt when he pushed Jason into the water. It just felt like something that he had to do. "You can't.. Both of you. You can't tell anyone," his regret quickly shifted into threats.

"What?!" Adam would have yelled it, had he not still been catching his breath.

"Don't act innocent!" Edwin snapped at him. "You were laughing at him, too! You're just as guilty!"

Anthony glared at him. "I'm not--"

"You wanna be an accessory, Ant-man?" Edwin sneered. He wouldn't let him off, either.

"...Accessory..?"

"Yeah," he growled at him, "You didn't do shit to help him. You were right there and he's dead now. You'll be locked up, same as me."

Was that true? Anthony had no idea. He had heard the term, 'accessory to murder.' What did that mean, though? He wasn't really sure.. He wasn't an accomplice per se.. It's not like he pushed him in or encouraged it or anything. But he _was_ right there. And Edwin was right that he didn't try to help him, even if he didn't want to hurt him in the first place.

"We gotta tell the counselors that he just fell in, okay?" Edwin murmured to the other boys. Adam nodded dutifully. Anthony was not so sure, but he felt he wouldn't have much of a choice. It was two peoples' stories against one.. And he didn't want to go to jail as an accessory to murder.

They returned to the camp as quickly as they could. Edwin, as the main perpetrator of the crime, was left to tell the story. He kept it vague, maintaining that Jason had accidentally fallen into the water. They tried to help him, but he went under too fast. Adam jumped into the water to try to retrieve him, but it was too dark to see. So they immediately returned.

Police and paramedics were called to the scene. They tried to search the water for the area, but it was useless. They never found the boy, dead or alive. They ruled that he had suffered an accidental death by drowning.

Pamela Voorhees was understandably distraught by the incident. Her only child, her baby boy, had just drowned because she was too selfish to watch over him. She was too self-centered to give him even a little bit of the love that he so desperately wanted from her. Instead, she sent him off to that pier. She sent him off to his death. Everyone told her that was nonsense, of course. She had no way of knowing that would happen. But it wasn't so much the logic behind the action as it was the feelings. She couldn't help but wonder: was that what she wished would happen?

She continued working at the camp after Jason's death, much to her colleagues' surprise. Her life became.. objectively easier after Jason's death. She no longer had to worry about her son being in the way of her personal life. She didn't have to worry about him being lonely or getting into trouble while she was at work. No more concerned parent-teacher conferences. No more trips to the child psychologist. No more looks of pity when she was in public. She could date again, without having to worry about how the man will respond to finding out she had a child.. not to mention a child with Jason's.. issues.

Pamela had never heard of anyone feeling the way she had felt. Whenever she heard tales of motherhood, it was always the same fantastical story of inexplicable love and immediately unbreakable bonds. Mothers were always ecstatic to have a child, no matter how dire the circumstances surrounding their pregnancy or birth. Indeed, Pamela herself had told the very same stories to other women, because it was the story she was supposed to have. Women weren't supposed to regret having a child, no matter the circumstances. And if she did regret it, then she damn well better keep those feelings to herself.

The fact that she felt this way, the very fact that she was undoubtedly _relieved_ to be free of her motherly responsibilities was itself just another stain on her conscience and her personhood. It was just another way that she was a 'failed woman.' She was a bad, bad mother. She would never get a second chance to raise Jason, nor would she ever get to tell him how sorry she was that he had to have been stuck with such an awful mother. In spite of the potential silver lining that the terrible mother had when her unloved son died, she could not even take advantage of it. She was unable to move on. She could not get past her guilt and regrets.

What of those boys? Well, Adam got over it fairly quickly. Sure he'd laughed at Jason as he died, but he didn't push him in, and he even swam around the lake to try to find him. Wasn't his fault. The other two had a more difficult time.

Anthony fretted over it from the first day. He wasn't directly at fault, but was there something he could've done to stop it? He didn't know Jason at all, but he did know that he was made fun of a lot at that camp. There was something a bit 'off' about him, and kids picked up on it quickly. As he got older, he realized that in addition to his physical abnormality, Jason probably also had a mental condition, rather than just being a little weird. He didn't know about those things as a child. He worried his ignorance and inaction contributed to his death. He worried that Jason might not forgive him for it.

He did not tell anyone of what happened that day. His parents knew about the incident, and they asked about it, but he never came clean. Never to his friends, either. He did eventually grow out of his childish ignorance, and didn't fear that he might suffer legal consequences for what happened. As an adult, he did return to the camp. He stood there on the dock, just looking over the water. It was the same time of year, same time of day, same sweltering heat. He tried to determine where exactly the four boys had been on the water that day, but he couldn't. There were much more prominent memories of the day than the terrain. He stood there and closed his eyes. He apologized to Jason. For not doing something to have helped him. The breeze picked up, causing an eerie rustling in the trees. He felt a little bit better, if only for his own sake, but he could not shake the feeling that Jason had not yet been put to rest.

Edwin did his best to forget the incident very soon after it happened. He was largely successful, blocking it out for the rest of his childhood. It was not until he was sixteen that he remembered it again. He was at a party, drinking. Edwin had gone to a vocational school in his county. Although not from Crystal Lake, several of his peers were. That night was like any other, until somehow, the conversation took a turn.

"Hey, do you remember that kid, ----- --------?"

_...Who?_

"Oh, yeah! I remember him! The retard, right? With the weird face thing?"

"Yeah, that one! **Jason Voorhees**!"

"Oh man, yeah.. that kid was really creepy. Never talked, just stared, with that fucked-up eye.."

"I heard he killed a dog.."

"Shit! Really?!"

"I heard his mom beat him or somethin'."

"Aw jeez, you're gonna make me depressed!"

"I wonder what ever happened to him.."

_I killed him._

"Huh? What'd you say, Ed?"

" **I KILLED HIM.** "

His friends thought he was joking, or that he was confused, or at worst, that he was exaggerating his part in Jason's death. Edwin began to hyperventilate, sweat trailing down his face. He recounted that fateful day, of bullying Jason, of pushing him into the water. He told his reasoning for it, which seemed so silly and flimsy now. His adult self definitely knew what a horrible, unforgivable thing he had done... and yet, the child in him still thought that it was the logical thing to do at the time.

He begged for forgiveness. His friends assured him that it was okay. He was just a child. Children are so unimaginably cruel, and everyone did things they regretted when they were young. Edwin didn't feel very comforted by their words. Maybe he had been trying to apologize to someone who wasn't there. He asked his friends to keep it a secret. They all said they would, but there is no way to keep such a secret forever. Many of them did try. Years passed, and they drifted away from the source of the story. They didn't use Edwin's name, but they told it.

_I knew the guy who killed Jason Voorhees.. Did you know that kid? He was deformed and retarded.. Everyone bullied him. One day he just snapped and killed a dog.. But, anyways.. yeah, he went to a summer camp with a guy I knew in high school.. That dude killed him. Pushed him in the water and drowned. They never found his body. Creepy, huh?_

_He killed a dog.. Don't know why. He must've just had enough. You can only take so much abuse until you crack, right? You know what they say.. serial killers usually start with animals.._

_They never found his body.. what if he didn't really die? Maybe he's still out there.. plotting his revenge..._

_He could've still died.. vengeful spirits 'n stuff.. I'm sure his spirit has a lot to be angry about._

_You know.. that camp always did give me the creeps.._

Stories travel quick in small towns. Don't let anyone tell you there's privacy in little places like Crystal Lake. Gossip travels like wildfire, and the tragic tales of Jason Voorhees were no exception. The tales were a mix of truth and fiction, the latter the result of a lack of information, purposeful exaggeration, or simple forgetfulness. People had their own versions of the story to tell, and its sensationalism and delicious melancholy eventually elevated the tales into local legend. _Everyone_ knew the name Jason Voorhees.

...And by extension, everyone became aware of Pamela Voorhees. For a while, her life calmed down. She was able to live a relatively normal life following the death of her son, until stories of him seemed to resurface out of nowhere. Her own life history smelled of sorrow. The rumors said that she had her son out of wedlock, and the dad ran off after he found out she was pregnant. Abandoned by her family, and then her child ends up _like that..._ Oh, the stories were too good for the gossipy housewives to keep to themselves. They went further, as people began to speculate.

_Pamela purposely got pregnant to try to get her boyfriend to marry her. When he didn't stay, she tried to abort the child, but it failed, and that's why he ended up deformed._

_She abused her son. I have a cousin who went to school with him. He said Jason showed up to school with bruises all over him. The teachers hated having to deal with a kid like that, so they just turned their heads.._

_In fairness.. I bet it's hard, having a kid like that.._

_She probably got sick of him. I don't think his death was an accident, if you get what I'm saying.._

_..Yeah, I think you're right. It was probably hard to run around with guys with such a needy kid. Everyone said she was a whore._

_How else do you think she could've made it as a single mother?_

The world would not let Pamela simply 'exist.' Their perceptions and misperceptions of her weighed down on her chest, making simply breathing an uphill battle. She knew many of the things said about her were untrue. Other things were repeated with such frequency and confidence that she began to believe that they might be true. The rumors began to create a version of Pamela which was not her original self, but which was nonetheless 'real.'

Pamela could not simply move on with her life. She had tried, and for a few years, she really thought it was possible. But the world dragged her back down, tying her to the sins of her past. She blamed Jason for his own existence. She could not blame Jason for his own death, because he no longer 'existed,' and thus was unpunishable. He could not blame herself, because she would simply give up on living. She could not blame the children who tormented him, because she knows the cruelty that children exhibit is simply a reflection of the world they live in.

There were the counselors.

Yes, the counselors. They were not children. All were sixteen or older, most were over eighteen. High school and college students who had the job only for the summer, before they return home or to their dorms, where they'd have their pockets padded and ready to enjoy their carefree youth. They would go off to study, preparing themselves for their careers, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, ready to begin designing their dream life. And they'd be happy to do it with mommy and daddy's money, but their parents insisted they get the job for the summer, to teach them about responsibility, or so that they could put it on their resume. 'Experience working with children,' as if they knew fuckall about them.

Most of them were probably _dying_ to get back to their debauchery as soon as possible. Pamela wasn't stupid. She heard the rumors. They smoked grass behind the counselors' cabin while the kids were in the cafeteria, and the oldest of them would sneak in alcohol for the rest of them after the kids went to sleep. She heard about the female counselors giving the men blowjobs in the storage shed like the little skanks they were. And those were probably the reasons why they weren't watching the kids on the day that Jason drowned: their heads were too preoccupied thinking about their next smoke or drink or lay. They were happy to get those kids out of sight so they could get back to what they _really_ cared about. 

One muggy July day, she offered to give a teenage girl a ride to camp. She was a cute girl. She looked a bit like Jason's father: freckled face, red hair, and glittering blue eyes. She looked so excited, and she was kind and sweet and ready for her very first job as a camp counselor. She said that she loved children: she wanted to work with them one day, maybe as a teacher or a social worker. As if she wasn't just sucking up to her for 'good girl' brownie points. Yes, Pamela knew her _real_ intentions at this camp. It was obvious just looking at her, with her tiny shorts and her tight shirt. Girls like this are why Jason is dead, and now why Pamela had to be forever remembered as the woman whose retarded bastard child was killed at Camp Crystal Lake-- to some, by Pamela's own hand.

She drove past the camp.

The girl became nervous. Surely Pamela knew the right way, she said she worked there. She pointed out her mistake, but Pamela said nothing, stewing in her anger. She pulled over to the side of the road, and the girl immediately scrambled out of the car and into the forest. Pamela kept a survival knife in the glovebox, in case of emergencies. She retrieved it and chased the girl, whose cries had begun to resonate through the wood when she saw Pamela pursuing her with a knife. The girl was faster than Pamela, but her distress began taking its toll on her focus. In her recklessness to just get out of this godforsaken place, she lost track of her footing. The toe of her boots knocked against an exposed root, sending her into the dirt and knocking the breath out of her.

She struggled to get to her feet, only to feel the burning slice of a knife against her shoulder blade. It forced her to fall back on her stomach. She rolled over, wailing in agony, to see the middle-aged woman above her. The girl wondered what she had done to deserve this, tears filling her eyes as her fear wilted into despair. Pamela knelt, yanking the girl's head back by her long, red hair, and slit open the girl's throat. Pamela was surprised by the amount of force required to cut deep enough, even with such a large knife, but she got it done regardless. The girl's carotid artery was split open, blood bursting out from the pressure, spraying onto Pamela's dress. The girl gasped in vain, and Pamela stood above her until her glittering eyes fully dimmed. She returned to her car and wiped the blood from the knife using her soiled dress, and changed into a spare set of clothes. She made it to the camp, and greeted her colleagues as usual.

Jason, up to this point, had not 'existed' for some time, nor was he exactly 'real.' He was not a watcher during this time, although his spirit occupied a similar sort of role, albeit a little less voyeuristic in nature. Even so, he witnessed what his mother had done in that forest. He watched her kill that girl. Why? Why did she do that? He let the thoughts pass by and through him.

The campsite was preparing for a new batch of children to arrive. For now, it was just workers. Including counselors.

Through that evening and night, Pamela killed at least half a dozen others. She told one girl that it was because they let Jason die. She was not a counselor at the time, of course-- Jason died before she was even born. But Pamela knew. She knew all of the counselors were the same, and their incompetence and indecency would lead to more deaths like Jason's. They had to be stopped before that happened, and they needed to be punished for what they did to her. 

Was that true..? Was it the counselors' fault that he died..? Jason thought about it. He never really considered them more at fault than anyone else.. He had blamed himself, for being too stupid to know how to swim. But now his mom was saying it was the counselors' fault, and they deserved to die? That they'd let other kids die, too?

His mother chased down the last counselor. She was more wiley than the others. She got a machete from the storage shed.. And she sliced his mother's head clean off.

Yes. The counselors must have been evil to kill his mother. She had to have been right about them. Mother did bad things sometimes, but it wasn't her fault. Even if Jason had maintained that the killings were wrong, he would have blamed himself as the catalyst of those murders, rather than his mother herself. Jason believed that he needed to continue where she left off. He needed to make sure that no other child would have to die at Camp Crystal Lake. And he hoped that would make his dear mother happy, to carry out what she became unable to do.

The murders caused a frenzy of chatter in Crystal Lake surrounding the already-existing Voorhees legends. It even got attention outside of Crystal Lake for the sheer brutality of the murders, and the killer's very unsuspected identity. What would make the mild-mannered Pamela Voorhees go on a killing spree? She must have gone insane. Was it something inside her that made her that way, or was it something around her..?

_You know that camp has always been freaky. People see things in those woods. They hear voices. Laughing, even._

_They found a dead deer hanging from the pier one year. I don't think that could've happened naturally. Why do so many animals turn up dead around there?_

_Do you think.. it could've been because of that boy? The Voorhees boy.. I think he killed animals for fun when he was little.._

_He could be haunting the campground.._

_Looking for revenge.. for the people who made him die._

_For the people who made his mother die._

_Those weird things that happened before, I bet that was him, too. What is it they call them? 'Vengeful spirits?'_

_Yeah. And I doubt that his mom getting her head chopped off will put his soul to rest._

A normal death might result in a vengeful spirit-- a spirit whose anger causes periodic manifestations in the realm of existence. But Jason was not an average person. He was the subject of folklore. The combined energy and belief in Jason's actuality was precisely what allowed him to become 'real.' He was, in essence, brought back to 'life' by the fears and uncertainties of the people who knew his story, in all of its truthful and untruthful iterations. He was not a human, nor was he a spirit. He was something else entirely. But he was 'real.'

He did want revenge for his mother. But more than anything, he just wanted to make her happy. And he wanted to be loved. 


	17. Chapter 17

The icebox, scrubbed of its grisly contents, somehow felt even more lifeless than before. Or perhaps it was simply the residue of his mood from earlier this morning. A cloud of despondence pervaded Emmerson's thoughts, dampening his concentration. Reluctantly settling into his desk, he rubbed his frigid, bare legs as he waited for the basement to warm. He swabbed the inside of his own mouth with a new Q-tip as the control to compare to Jason's sample. Rubbing each swab onto its own glass slide, he can faintly see the bits of skin picked up from each sample. Each slide is stained with methylene blue before secured with a covering and deposited under the microscope.

He adjusts the focus, examining their structure under the maximum magnification the microscope can handle. He was surprised to find his own skin cells to be comparatively less numerous when occupying the same spatial area of the slide. Emmerson's skin was more keratinized and granular. Whereas Jason's sample showed signs of keratinization and granularization, it was fairly subtle compared to his own. Given the oral mucosa's propensity for rapid healing and very little scar formation, he did wonder how quickly an oral lesion would heal in such an environment.

Not satisfied with surface-level morphological comparison, Emmerson prepared vials of diluted sodium dodecyl sulfate, depositing the remaining sample into them before adding proteinase-K to break down the undesired skin components, leaving behind only glycosaminoglycan. He found that Jason's skin contained a much higher quantity of glycosaminoglycans, and in particular, hyaluronic acid. Hyaluronic acid is associated with an inhibition of the early stages of scar formation, so this seems consistent with his results, fortunately. So far, his results seem to indicate a cellular and environmental composition which is conducive to the conditions of regeneration. However, he is no closer to understanding why Jason's body operates in such a way, or if a typical human body will naturally have its regenerative pathways induced given the optimal conditions. Is there some way to explore either..?

Emmerson's legs are nearly numb. It's still freezing down here. After scribbling down his results and preliminary thoughts, he stands, albeit shakily, hugging his arms. He doesn't bother to put away the created samples, likely having exhausted what he collected. He headed back upstairs, eager to finally eat something.

That rabbit is still decaying in the fridge. It smells acrid, a sticky film having developed on the exposed innards. If it wasn't inedible before, then it certainly is now. Emmerson pondered over the pitiable sight, acknowledging that the creature died in vain. It would probably be best to discard it, and he considered burying the creature to restore some dignity to it, before remembering that he dismembered several human corpses to be scattered throughout a cursed forest. He reckoned that he's most likely not the correct person to provide any being its funerary rites. And, Jason might be upset if he got rid of it. Sorry, buddy. You're staying there a while longer. Emmerson contemplated what else he could do with it.

Things are really getting down to the wire in the kitchen. He mixed some bouillon with tap water-- that counts as food, right? While not incredible, it is technically drinkable, but makes his stomach start to churn. He abandons the solution, considering the potential consequences. Returning to the fridge, he greets the rabbit again, pushing it aside slightly. He noticed a few slices of individually-wrapped processed cheese slices. Perfect! It's somehow less palatable than the bouillon mixture, but at least it doesn't make him nauseous. He sees a half-drank bottle of vodka on the door of the fridge. It's a plastic bottle, if that's indicative of its quality. But it's the only alcohol left. He takes a (un)healthy swig of it, doing his best not to let it touch his tongue. The inside of his mouth burns afterwards.

Drifting lackadaisically into his living room, he kicked off his boots and pulled the sheet off of his sofa, about to lie down on it, before meeting the sight of the blackened blood stain. Ugh. The smell of decomposition wafted into his nose. He threw the sheet over the back of the seat. He thinks he should probably dispose of this pretty soon as well. At this point, it was probably beyond saving. He isn't too sure of how to do so. _Could saw off the legs,_ he thinks. _Done it before._ He giggles, trying to cope with it.

He trudged up into his bedroom, realizing it'd been some time since he'd been here. He slipped off the musky flannel, and it fell to the floor. Crawling onto the mattress, he remembered how lovely it is to be in a bed. So lovely. He lifts up his lower body, pulling the blankets out from under him, nestling into them. They were soft, but oddly impersonal. Sinking his head into his pillow, his eyelids drop softly, aided by the vodka that was now coursing through his veins.

His rest is interrupted when he remembers the sting of the day's earlier interaction. Who was that person? He was certain he'd never seen them before, nor had there been any implication from Jason that there was someone living with him. Not that Emmerson knew how he'd be able to convey that information even if he wanted to. He couldn't recall any such figure in the Voorhees legends, but they did look rather young.. Assuming they were beholden to the laws of time and physicality. Could they have been.. Jason's child, perhaps? No, no.. Emmerson didn't like the implications of that idea, and it only led to more questions. Maybe a family had visited the campsite, and he killed their parents.. and just decided to 'keep' the child? For what purposes? He recalled that there weren't any confirmed instances of him killing a child, but.. he wasn't convinced that he would be overly enthusiastic about living with one. Not that he had solid evidence of that.

More to the point of his concern was why they became so hostile towards him. They _sniffed_ him, and their disposition became more negative then. Although, they did seem pretty wary right from the get-go. Were they protective of the house, or of Jason, or both? Either way, Emmerson didn't think he was a fundamental threat to either. The house was incidental to his purposes, and Jason was a test subject. He needed him alive, without a doubt, and wouldn't intentionally try to hurt him. Not that he thought he really could: he has been operating this entire time under the assumption that Jason could easily decapitate him with little hesitation or effort. Despite Jason's recent attachment to him as some kind of adoptive mother figure, he had no desire to commit to that role long-term. He would only entertain it so long as he needed him for research. Jason was a literal serial killer. Emmerson could get comparable attention (and a similar quality of conversation) from a Pomeranian, and with none of the trouble.

But.. maybe Jason _wasn't_ a killer? He never saw Jason kill anyone. There were a lot of unusual things about him. But none of them necessitates being a killer. It was true that he had never seen Jason kill somebody directly. But that could have easily been because he hadn't seen any other people around. And, if he did want to believe that Jason's isn't a murderer, then he'd have to explain why he found him lying in the middle of the road with three gunshot wounds, why he was carrying a machete, why he inexplicably stole one of his kitchen knives, why he was completely unfazed by the sight of several dismembered corpses, and why he almost perfectly matches the description of a near-mythical mass murderer.

_Knock knock!_

Two thumps from downstairs pulls Emmerson out of his musing, forcing his eyes open and locking their gaze on the ceiling. Just as he began to think that it may have been nothing, the noise repeats itself. Annoyed, he looked out the window: while the light had dulled slightly, it was not yet evening. Did Jason come back so soon? He rolled out of bed and threw on the first clothes he saw: a longline hoodie and underwear, no pants, no socks. He fumbled as he attempted to pull on the undies and walk down the hall simultaneously.

_Knock knock!_

"Yeah, I know, I know! I'm coming!"

He swings open the door with considerable force, expecting to see Jason there. He wasn't.

It was Officer O'Ryan.

Of course it was. Who else would it be? Jason busted the door's lock. He would've just walked in. 

"Good afternoon," O'Ryan mumbles, not looking up from the paper he was holding.

"Hey. I was be-e-eginning to think you wouldn't c-come back," Emmerson snapped. "Do you have a-a-a warra-a-ant?"

"Nah. Not here about that," his face sours slightly, as if reminded of something unpleasant. He turns the paper to Emmerson, pinched between thumb and index finger. "Young lady went missing a few days ago. You seen 'er?"

He cautiously grabbed the photo with both hands. She was a stunning woman: perky nose and big, bright eyes. Her lips were plump and glossy, while her skin was deep with golden undertones. Dark, crimped locks framed her heart-shaped face. She was unforgettable, so Emmerson knew he'd never seen her.

"No. I have-e-en't. People don't c-come this far out very ofte-e-en," he explained.

"I'm aware," O'Ryan snarls back at him. Clearly, the animosity was mutual. "Her name is Noel King. She came camping this way with 'er boyfriend and a friend. Boyfriend was found stabbed t' death, friend showed up at the station, 'round 2 or 3 AM, was completely hysterical... Rightly so, I s'pose."

2 or 3 AM? A few days ago? Right, that would explain some of his own questions. Who was speeding away from the lake, and why he found Jason with three gunshot wounds. All things considered, this woman was probably not alive. How is he supposed to respond to this..?

"I see.. No, I have-e-en't seen her. Sorry," technically, this was not a lie. "...I'll ta-a-ake the photo, though. In c-c-ca-a-aase.."

"Yeah, sure. Take it." his cynical tone almost makes Emmerson doubt whether he really should. But he did not stop Emmerson as he stepped back. Emmerson quickly walked to the coffee table, setting down the paper. He heard the door drift open slightly before returning to it. O'Ryan's eyes are atypically wide, staring past Emmerson.

"So tell me, _friend_ ," he growls, "what d'you know about that?" he points just over Emmerson's shoulder. The sofa is half-covered by the sheet, as he had left it earlier, the dried bloodstain partially visible underneath.

***

Carl William O'Ryan was from a town about twice the size of Crystal Lake, in the same state. It was still a rather small town. He grew up the same as many contemporary boys. He was the middle child of three sons. His parents were working-class, by-the-book conservative traditionalists, his mother a stay-at-home mom and his father a factory worker. He spent his childhood weekends at family cook-outs or playing sports with neighborhood kids. The collective experience would develop who he was as a person, but in their individual elements, were commonplace.

Perhaps one of his most vivid childhood memories-- and likely the most formative one-- was of his first trip hunting. It was important to most boys in these semi-rural communities, being viewed as a sort of rite of passage. The act of killing a prey animal in that culture was supposed to somehow cause the transition from boyhood into manhood. Young Carl was not so sure how or why this was the case before his first kill, but he did know it was expected of him.

It was not until he actually squeezed the trigger that he understood. He watched the bullet pierce the side of a tawny-brown doe. It crumpled to the ground, and his father took his rifle as they ran to inspect it. The animal's eyes were pitch-black and wide, its large, black-tipped ears twitching as the life draining from it. When it stopped, it was no longer a being: it was a trophy. It would be mounted as a permanent reminder of his prowess. The killing of the deer was a symbol of his ability to exert himself over others, hence why it was tied to masculinity. What separates a boy from a man in these cultures is being dominant, sometimes lethally so.

He would continue to seek out that thrill for his whole life. All men in this community would. Even if manhood was nominally something that was conferred once, this was simply untrue. The killing of the deer was simply proof that you _could_ be a man. In reality, you had to continuously prove that you were a 'real man' through your repeated acts of dominance. Not necessarily through hunting, although it was an option. Carl certainly pursued it whenever he could; in fact, he became known as one of the best hunters in his hometown, which he touted often and endlessly.

After high school, Carl joined the military. It was tradition in his family, which he was beyond pleased to continue through his own line. He served for six years before being honourably discharged. He returned to his home, hoping to settle down and start a family of his own, and repeat the cycle of every family in this town. He didn't have a particular career interest, and worked in a factory for a couple of years. He ultimately decided he wanted to be a police officer. Why wouldn't he? He had a lot of experience with guns.

The problem was that he was not so sure that he could settle down in his hometown. He had friends and family that he would've liked to stay with, but he had been with many women here. He had somewhat of a reputation, at best as a player, and it only became worse from there. He had done some bad things. Things that he knew he shouldn't have done, although he was more concerned about his own repercussions than he was about the women he had hurt.

So he looked for women elsewhere, and he found one: a Miss Frances Evans in a town about 45 minutes away, called Crystal Lake. It was not much, but it was a small town like his own home, and it had a police department. Within just a few months of talking, he moved to Crystal Lake and they rented their first apartment together. Within a year, they were married.

Now here he was, among the newest recruits. He got the idyllic little home, wife, and soon a child, that he had envisioned. What he didn't expect was the extreme xenophobia which permeated the town, its inhabitants, and all of their dealings. It was obvious from every interaction that O'Ryan was an outsider: it was in his appearance, his accent, his gait, his word choice, what he knew and what he didn't. If you wanted to be included, you had to assimilate to the cultural expectations of this town. And O'Ryan crossed the line far too much for the tastes of his peers.

When a young, recent university graduate moved into a virtually unsaleable cabin at the edge of Camp Crystal Lake, most assumed that they were up to no good: O'Ryan included. This was not a town to which people simply moved without some obvious connection-- it had nothing major to offer in terms of attractions or career opportunities Most of its residents had been present for several generations, and those that hadn't usually married into local families, although this was somewhat rare. The vast majority of residents were not university educated. A fair number did not finish high school. The young, unaffiliated, and educated typically visited for vacations, and later expeditions, to Camp Crystal Lake.

Where O'Ryan and the locals diverged was their approach to the new resident. Most locals were aware of his arrival, but ignored it. Those who flippantly enter Camp Crystal Lake all meet the same fate, and this one would be no different. While not technically within the camp, they were situated at the very edge, and had no nearby neighbors-- making him a fairly convenient victim in the absence of others. Even if the Crystal Lake killer didn't venture outside the forest, they doubted that the graduate's proximity to the forest was coincidental. Nobody cared to involve themselves either way. O'Ryan felt otherwise-- his incredibly unusual appearance had to be due to some illicit activity, and he wanted to sniff it out. The graduate was on his radar immediately. Not convinced of the locals' silly superstitions and legends, he doubted the problem would simply resolve itself.

O'Ryan believed he had uncovered the new resident's criminal intentions with the arrest of David Gerulaitis, a mortuary assistant, who had been suspected of selling human remains and prescription substances. The graduate's name and number was in his phone, with a record of unusually-timed phone calls. O'Ryan questioned the resident regarding his involvement with Gerulaitis, and received some rather lackluster answers, but was declined consent to search the home. Without enough direct evidence nor a warrant, O'Ryan had no choice but to temporarily retreat, but was confident that he could get a warrant before long.

He was outraged when he was discouraged by other officers from petitioning a warrant for the resident's home. This was not a traffic violation, not some menial drug offence-- it was the desecration of human bodies. Two bodies from two innocent people, used for unknown purposes. O'Ryan tried to appeal to their humanity: what if this had been your own relative, friend, or spouse? But his fellow officers were unconvinced. The bodies were not of their own. They weren't even locals-- they were within the precinct, but technically lived in a different town. They believed resources should be directed elsewhere. O'Ryan was made to jump through hoops at every turn. Nearly a month after his initial interrogation, he still didn't have a warrant. But sure enough, there was a bigger problem now: namely, the killing of Chester Tilson and the disappearance of Noel King.

He was seemingly alone in this sentiment as well. Police were almost resigned to what had happened, but more than that, appeared to know much more about the case than was conveyed to him. It was later articulated to him that the locals here believed that the camp was 'cursed' in some way: the ghost of some disabled child would kill anyone who trespassed in his resting place. Of course, O'Ryan didn't buy any of that irrational bullshit. While it was true that the killer in this case matched the description of the undead child, Jason Voorhees, the darkness made precise identification impossible. It was entirely possible that a calculated killer was taking advantage of local traditions by impersonating the Voorhees of legend, knowing that locals will believe the myths. The killer's presumed disappearance was obviously because Billie had not been as successful in her shots as she claimed-- an easy mistake to make during a stressful situation in the dead of night. What intrigued O'Ryan was that the approximate location of the killer's body was near the residence of the university graduate. Given the graduate's previous implication in the purchase of human remains, O'Ryan didn't think it far off that they might engage in other grotesque activities-- perhaps resorting to killing after their source of bodies was cut off. O'Ryan was determined to find Tilson's killer, even if he had to conduct the investigation alone.

***

Emmerson had been in police custody for a few hours now. He hadn't been charged for a crime, but he's sure as fuck being suspected at least a couple. The disposition of the officers is quite odd; obviously, O'Ryan hates him for some reason, while the other cops seem disdainful but generally uninterested in him and the crimes for which he was suspected. He had been told that he's suspected in the disappearance and murder of Noel King, and the unregulated purchase of human remains. Officer O'Ryan was justified in his arrest, probable cause implicated by the presence of a bloodstained object in his home. Because evidence of foul play was clearly visible to the officer, it also became legally justifiable to search his home. A mugshot was taken of him, DNA collected from his mouth in much the same way he collected it from Jason. Fingerprints pressed, blood taken, and strip-searched-- not that there was much to strip. His clothing was confiscated from him in exchange for the jail's uniform. Now he waited alone in a cell, about the size of a walk-in closet, surrounded by tiled white walls and decorated with a single cot. He buried his face into the inside of his elbow, waiting. 

***

The subject of human resurrection was perhaps one of the most well-studied topics in all of what could be broadly categorized as 'witchcraft.' It's not hard to understand why: there were countless people throughout history who, much like Jason, were unable to overcome the grief of a deceased loved one. Even those who were complete strangers to folkloric craft would seek out how to raise the dead, so that they may see their love one more time. Unfortunately, practitioner or no, the majority abandoned the pursuit, having gained only disappointment and despair, while others were forced to face grave consequences.

Bringing a human back to life was not a trivial matter, for a multitude of reasons. In fact, despite the topic being ubiquitous within popular folklore, there are few records which purport to have successfully brought a person back into the realm of existence. There are two theoretical ways to do so: reanimation and reincarnation, both of which have very particular requirements and usages.

Reanimation is itself not a topic as much as it is an entire practical study of witchcraft, better known as necromancy. Necromancy was primarily focused on the body. In short and simple terms, it is the process of forcibly binding a soul to a vessel that would, under ordinary circumstances, be unable to accommodate it. Putting a soul inside of a dead body, basically. Nearly any organic vessel could be used for necromancy, although they cannot do things that would be impossible to physically perform-- for example, a severed head, even when bound to a soul, will never be able to speak. The focus on the bodily vessel for reanimation means that souls are typically taken from the earth's general aethyr, and is usually simply the closest and most vulnerable soul within the localized aethyr. Because of the fickle and transient nature of the spirit, it is extremely difficult to ascertain the location of a particular 'non-existent' 'being' without some prior preparation. For example, a sigil can be used to bind a soul to a particular location, thus making them available for reanimation in that area until the sigil is destroyed. But, because of the difficulty of this process and the forethought that is required, necromancy has been predominantly used for magical experimentation and for illicit purposes, rather than to bring a particular person back from the dead.

Reincarnation is a completely different process which can occur naturally, and supposedly artificially as well. Spirits are often 'recycled,' so to speak. Not every human that has ever existed has been their own unique 'person.' A person could have been several humans over many lifetimes, and on rare occasions, one human might be inhabited by more than one person, either by birth or acquired during their life. A spirit may intentionally or accidentally inhabit a vacant vessel, usually bearing some aspects of themselves from a previous life in their personality or inclinations, but forget the particulars until they cross over again. This is the process of natural reincarnation. Artificial reincarnation is the purposeful placement of a particular soul into a vacant vessel that is capable of long-term occupation, i.e. a fetus which will eventually develop into a human being.

Reanimation with a specific soul was not possible when the person in question died more than a couple of days ago because of the shifting nature of the aethyr. Moreover, Jason didn't have the complete corpse of his mother. Reincarnation was technically possible, although there was the same issue of locating the soul of Jason's mother decades after her death. It would not be surprising if her spirit remained at or around Camp Crystal Lake, in part because her partial corpse resides there, and because of the strong emotional attachment that she probably had to the location in life. But Aspen had difficulty determining whether she was really there.

Spirits will sometimes reveal themselves to those who are predisposed to sensing their presence. But they could not find Pamela Voorhees. Jason insisted that she talked to him regularly, both at the iconostasis and throughout Crystal Lake. And it's true that Jason, as a non-human entity, was more directly connected to the realm of non-existence. But Aspen was among the most spiritually-attuned of humans. So why could Aspen find no trace of her? Was she purposefully concealing herself, and if so, why? Did she not believe Aspen worthy, or.. detect their selfish malintent?

Aspen began to believe that Pamela Voorhees was not actually there. Jason was probably having delusions of his mother. He had to believe that they were connected, because pleasing his mother was his entire purpose for returning to the world of humans. If he were to accept that she was gone forever, then every atrocity he's committed, all of his efforts and struggles, would have been for nothing. All for the sake of the watchers' entertainment, and nothing more.

Aspen did wonder if it was one of the watchers who were whispering in Jason's head, pretending to be his mother. Most were content to watch, and preferred simply to watch the show unfold naturally. But some of the more mischievous ones would whisper to lower-level lifeforms. But Aspen wondered why they wouldn't talk to them, too. And they supposed that it was just as likely that Jason created the voices himself. The voice could've started as a fantasy borne out of his pining for her, but these would eventually become 'real,' accidentally or purposefully. What started as a coping mechanism could have developed into psychosis.

Aspen did not believe they could bring back Pamela Voorhees. Even if it were possible, it was questionable as to whether or not they would actually want to. What was Jason's goal: to avenge his mother, or to bring her back? If he brought her back, then would Aspen be alone again?

Aspen would not accept that, even if it meant prolonging Jason's suffering, even if it meant the killings would continue. Aspen didn't want to be alone. They would not let him leave. They knew this was beyond selfish. It was a sin of the highest order. But Aspen was really the same as they ever were: they wanted love. They could never move beyond that abject longing.

They did want Jason to be happy, so long as he didn't leave. So they told him that they could help him bring Pamela back. It was a lie, as they did not believe her presence was still here. But they wanted to give him hope that he might actually be able to see her again. That he might actually get the love from her that he never received while he was alive.

Aspen taught him about the process of soul-binding. The use of a sigil to bind a spirit to an object or a space. Jason was a natural at it. His artistic skills and status as a nonhuman entity made him well-suited for the task. And he believed very strongly, both in the preternatural and in Aspen. He began the task of marking sites with sigils shortly after he made a kill, trapping even more souls inside the camp. Some would remain at the camp, while others would be taken elsewhere. Aspen did not know what they would do with the excess spiritual energy, even if Jason was under the impression that they knew the exact process. There was no grand plan on Aspen's part. They were simply trying to keep him occupied and hopeful for his mother's eventual return, whether it would truly happen or not.

Aspen did try to conceive of some way to retrieve Pamela's spirit. There were abundant reports from practitioners and laypersons alike who attest to contacting a spirit for counsel, or even to perform some action within the realm of nonexistence. Aspen considered employing the help of one of their captured spirits to make correspondence with Pamela Voorhees. But considering they were murdered by Jason in life and then forcibly bound to their place of death, Aspen was not confident that any spirit would be so benevolent towards them. Even on the off-chance that they were, there was no guarantee that Pamela still inhabited that realm, nor was there any indication how long correspondence would take to establish, given her death was so long ago.

There was the additional issue of attaining a vessel. Technically, reanimation could be achieved with any organic material, but it is typically very uncomfortable unless it is an intact, healthy body. But intact, healthy people don't usually drop dead. Methods of killing that would leave a suitable, long-term vessel were scarce and difficult for them to attain.

It would probably be physically easier to attain a vessel for reincarnation. A fetus in early development.

...

Aspen considered that. They figured it would probably be the only circumstance in which they'd be able to know Jason carnally. How lovely it would be to have their virginity torn to shreds, to be joined in the highest form of blood-covenant, their maiden body sown with his seed. Aspen thought about simply lying to him about reincarnating his mother, and just having a natural child with him. What was it that Dido said to Aeneas before he fled Carthage? And does it still apply if they could not see his face on a normal day?

Aspen couldn't bring themself to do it, no matter how much they dreamt of it. It would be tantamount to rape.

There was functionally no way for them to resurrect her, but Aspen insisted that it was not the case. Eventually, Puppy began to lose hope. Waiting ten years for anything, even such a complex procedure as this, would make anyone discouraged. Maybe he'd given up, just too tired of waiting. Or his discouragement coincided with Emmerson's arrival, whose resemblance convinced him that his mother had already been reincarnated in the form of this doctor. Why else would he have been so kind to him, as to try to heal his wounds? Because he knew, even if only subconsciously, that Jason was at one time his son, and that he needed to protect him from those who would try to hurt him.

Aspen could not bear it. They knew the elucidator's scent was lingering elsewhere. He left some sort of hex in this house. It emanated evil energy. It was in.. Jason's room?

His childhood room, that is. Aspen hated going in there. They looked down the stairs. Puppy had left not long ago, their conflict culminating in his flight from the house. Probably to see that horrible scientist. Aspen wanted him to understand that this was for his well-being and not their own, but they supposed Aspen hadn't been exactly honest with him up to this point.

They stepped into the bedroom. It looked about as they had remembered it-- neither Aspen nor Puppy entered it very often. Aspen could see the markings of a deeply unhappy and disturbed child in this room. Unlike the rest of the original home, which was fairly sparsely-decorated and furnished, Jason's room was indicative of a person who could not part with anything. It was stuffed with miscellaneous objects, some of which one would expect to see in a child's room-- toys, board games, the like, and others, seeming much more random-- a broom, stacks of documents, books way past his reading level, and even empty liquor bottles.. the bottles were filled with coins, apparently having been used as makeshift piggy banks by the young Jason Voorhees. 

Aspen stayed in this room for a little while when they themself were still a child. It always had a very strange 'aura' to it, but they were a child, and they wanted a child's room. They found a sketchbook tucked under the bed one night. The pages were yellowed, and some of the pencil drawings had faded. But others, done in ink, were still very vivid. Much like his toys, his early drawings had all of the faces either blank or scribbled out. As the drawings became more advanced, indicative of his aging, most of the people began to have coherent faces. Except for one person: himself. He still crossed out his own face, sometimes drawing ghastly, scribbled expressions in stark black ink overtop of otherwise graphite drawings.

On a positive note, it was how Aspen discovered Puppy's interest in art. But it was also the final night they spent in that room.

Now they tiptoed through it again, movely slowly and purposefully, looking for the source of the effluvium. It took Aspen to.. the bed? They approached it, cautiously, running a finger down the thin, gaudily-colored quilt. Despite its thinness, they remembered it being quite comfortable. Pinching it like it could be poison, they peel the quilt back from the bed, but find nothing beneath it but faded cotton sheets. They brought their nose to it. It smelled stronger here than at the doorway for sure, but.. it wasn't the bed itself. Moving up, they found the source: the pillow.

Seemingly having forgotten the tenderness with which they treated the quilt, Aspen threw the pillow off the bed without a second thought. Surely enough, it sat there: a stack of papers. They brought the papers up to their face, barely able to contain their nausea as the noxious emanations coated the inside of their head. Aspen's brain felt like melted sugar.

They began to read it.

_Samples were garnered using a hypodermic needle, drawing blood intramuscularly from US4... A modified version of reverse transcription polymerase chain reaction was used to determine the levels of each isoform of transforming growth factor beta..._

The bastard must have written it in code. But it didn't matter. Aspen was going to destroy it anyway. Holding the papers against their chest so that they cannot escape, Aspen speeds downstairs and into the kitchen, retrieving a cast-iron pot and a box of matches. They drop the pot onto the porch and it lands with a heavy _thump!,_ but luckily the boards didn't break. The papers went inside the pot, and with a single strike, the match was lit. They dropped it atop the papers, and they immediately began to shrivel under the oppression of the flame. They withered into blackness, each page slowly being reduced to ashes. Aspen knelt down to see it closer. It smelled incredible. Like caramel.

They sat next to, absorbing the effluvium's destruction, until there was nothing but cinders at the bottom of the pot. They filled it with water to be discarded into the lake. The watchers were laughing. 


	18. Chapter 18

Inside an interrogation room, Emmerson sits on a folding chair, a flimsy table barely big enough for two the only divider between him and O'Ryan. The space is only slightly larger than his cell. The sterility reminded him of the icebox, although it was significantly warmer-- almost uncomfortably hot, in fact. His head pounds under the fluorescent lights, having not slept well. But at least he got food here.

"You want a drink?" O'Ryan asked. He seemed like he was expecting a "no."

"No."

"Great," he doesn't sound particularly great. "So, wouldja like to explain the blood on yer furniture?"

"I-I told you once," Emmerson started, repeating what he had told O'Ryan previously. "It was from hunting. I-I set a k-k-kill o-on the sofa, it bled o-out. You'll see the rabbit in my fridge!"

"I see," he is unconvinced. "You saying that blood's from a rabbit?"

"I-I didn't say that," Emmerson became nervous by his twisting of words. He didn't like cops. He didn't like the possibility that his words might be used against him, over something like a miscommunication. "The rabbit is proof that I-I do hunt. The blood is no-o-ot from a rabbit."

"Whassit from?"

What is an animal? A big one! Come on, come on! "A deer."

O'Ryan leers up from his notes, a vague smirk just barely visible. His pleasure makes Emmerson uncomfortable.

"You have a gun?" he asks.

Emmerson realized he's fucked up. But he had no choice but to go with it.

"I-I.. I do-o-on't-t. I-I have a.. knife." he can barely get the words out, already embarrassed.

"You hunted a deer with a knife?"

"I-I'm.. one hell of an ambush k-kkiller."

He chuckles. "Fantastic. What'dja do with the corpse?"

"C-consumed what I-I c-c-could, and got rid o-of the rest."

"So you hunt deer with guerrilla tactics by day, and buy antiques from morticians by night?"

"Good to be a well-rounded individual," Emmerson stated with sarcastic pride. "I-I went to a liberal arts c-college, you kno-o-ow."

A small knock halted their conversation, much to his appreciation. O'Ryan held his stare for a few seconds following it, before excusing himself outside.

***

"So, what'dju find?" O'Ryan spoke in a hushed tone to a forensic scientist. He smelled like sterilizing fluids.

"Well, the blood on the knife.. that's definitely human." 

O'Ryan smiled wide. That knife was used to kill someone, and it was found inside Emmerson's home. If this wasn't proof of his guilt, O'Ryan didn't know what would be.

"We can't say whose it is, but.. it is human." The scientist said it definitively. He does not look any more confident, however.

"Great! Love to hear it," O'Ryan gives the anxious man a shoulder slap before turning to return to his interrogation. "Thanks, friend."

"W-wait!" the man's shout stops O'Ryan in his tracks. He turns back to the scientist, a little bewildered. What more was there to say?

"It's.. uh.. about the blood on the sofa," he clears his throat.

Ah, that's right. But it was obvious. Emmerson already said that he brought a 'kill' back to his house, causing that stain. That much was true. It just wasn't a deer.

"Well? What about it?"

"It's, um.." the man looks unsure of how to even begin. "We don't really know what's going on with it, frankly."

O'Ryan raised an eyebrow, waiting for an elaboration.

"Well, put simply, the genomic sequence of the blood came back inconclusive."

O'Ryan huffed slightly. "The DNA wasn't in the database? Didn't think it'd be."

"No!" the scientist became agitated. "Er, no, I mean. We attempted to sequence the blood.. the DNA in the blood... to see, you know, if it was human blood, or animal blood, and, uh... We don't really know what it is."

O'Ryan didn't understand the implications, but wasn't liking the tone of these answers.

The nervous scientist continued, "Um, yes, it's blood! I think. No, it's definitely blood. The components, the composition.. It's blood. We, uh, just don't know.. where it came from.."

O'Ryan hated this. It was better than the stain being something other than blood, at least, but he was already certain of that-- after all, the graduate had basically admitted as much. But this result could potentially give legitimacy to their ridiculous deer-stabbing story.

"Would the age of the blood cause that?"

"Oh, no.." he fidgets with the sleeve of his coat. "DNA will denature, yes, with age, and especially with heat.. But it's only a couple of days old. Not nearly enough.." He looks at his feet, shamefaced. "I've.. honestly never had this happen.. I've never seen something like this.. I'm sorry, sir."

"It's alright," O'Ryan lied. He didn't think that it was the lab's fault, but he couldn't help but be annoyed. This wasn't helpful to his case, and he had to prove himself here. "What's yer best guess?"

The scientist appears to panic slightly. "W-well... the composition, I think.. I mean, well, it resembled... fetal blood. Er, mammalian fetal blood. The DNA isn't human, but it's probably from a mammal.. The composition is what you would expect from a mammal in utero... in the early stages of gestation."

He was not expecting this answer. Not only is it not conducive to his own investigative efforts, O'Ryan couldn't even imagine what the situation would be to cause such a stain. Some kind of animal abortion? It was weird, and it was suspicious, but there wasn't much he could do with "weird and suspicious."

"Shit. Thanks." O'Ryan dismissed him.

The blood is supposedly from an unidentified non-human fetus, which Emmerson claimed was the result of hunting a dead deer. A dead rabbit was found rotting in the fridge, which appears to have been killed using a knife, suggesting that they do indeed hunt with knives. Needless to say, the amount of blood on the furniture was much too copious to have been caused by a rabbit, and while its corpse was definitely unsanitary, it was not legally problematic.

A laboratory was found under the house, the entrance obscured under a (empty) compost bin. The laboratory was relatively clean-- some prepared samples were confiscated, which appeared organic in nature, but the sources were not able to be identified because of previous chemical manipulation. Notably, the laboratory contained several autopsy tables: certainly not a great look for somebody suspected of purchasing human corpses. But no DNA was recovered from any of the tables, meaning they were either unused or scrubbed clean.

...

O'Ryan could feel himself getting a headache.

He speed-walked down the hallway, towards a sitting room. The same sitting room where he had first talked to Billie about this case. There she was again, sitting in silence, her head resting in her hand. She was still wearing his wife's clothing: a long-sleeve, floor-length mauve dress, which neither suited nor fit her particularly well. She looked just generally tired and miserable. He had instructed her to stay here, as she had begun feeling ill again. She had felt better for a day before the symptoms returned. Maybe it was the adrenaline of finding Aspen that kicked her body into gear, and then the stress returned once the hormones wore off.

"Hangin' in there?"

"Yeah.." Billie looked like she could collapse any moment.

"I was talkin' with our guy.. turns out the knife they found had human blood on it."

Billie raised her head, as surprised as her exhausted body would let her appear. "Really?"

"Yeah," O'Ryan frowned. She knew that it couldn't have been so straightforward. "Blood on the sofa.. Wasn't human."

"Huh..? What was it?"

"Dunno."

"Geez.. that's.." Billie half-chuckles, half-scoffs. "Kinda scary, actually."

"Yeah." O'Ryan was hoping for some kind of insight as to what it could have been, but he didn't get anything. Not sure what Billie could've offered that the scientist couldn't, but O'Ryan was hopeful. "By the by.. you saw the guy when we brought him in, right?"

Billie nods, unenthusiastic.

"He look like the guy you saw?"

Billie glanced up at him, smirking slightly. "That twink? Not a chance."

Emmerson was five-foot-nine. Not short, but not tall either. He was small-framed, with a BMI of about 19.4. He was far from the hulking behemoth described in Billie's original report.

"Yer killin' me."

Billie raised an eyebrow at him. Maybe a poor choice of words.

O'Ryan thought of pressing it, but there was really not much else he could say. He sighed and left the girl to wallow in her anguish.

He thought it over. He knew that something very unusual was going on with Emmerson, and he was going to unearth it. In addition to the knife, they found a camera inside his home, in a flannel shirt. As it turns out, the camera was Billie's, and the shirt belonged to Chester. None of the evidence looked very good for him. 

And yet, it was true that he was far from the description that Billie gave, or any of the other previous sightings of the killer. Even in the footage captured on the camera, the arm of the killer-- the only part of him visible before the camera fell to the floor-- looked much too massive to be Emmerson's. Chester was about six-foot-one, and the arm of the killer appeared larger than his own. O'Ryan tried to conceptualize some method that could've been used to cause that dramatic of a size differential. But he couldn't think of a plausible one. Moreover, even if there was one, he doubted that Emmerson's noodle-arms would be able to break a human skull.

Potentially, Emmerson himself wasn't the killer, but he might've been working with him. Emmerson was implicated in the purchase of human remains, but his source was arrested. Without a way to obtain corpses, maybe he somehow contacted the killer and exchanged something for his dead victims. But it would be hard to prove without any recorded communication, or without physical bodies.

He knew something was wrong here. Emmerson did not seem particularly strong, neither in body nor will. O'Ryan thought it wouldn't take much to break him.

***

The flimsy door of the interrogation room opens lethargically, revealing O'Ryan, poker-faced. He closes the door very carefully behind him. Standing in front of the door still, he rubs his temples slightly, running his fingers through his straight black hair. His thick eyebrows then heavily furrowed, his resentful eyes meeting Emmerson's.

"So. Here's the thing," his standing makes him appear much taller than Emmerson, making the latter shrink back slightly, defensive and vulnerable. "We found that knife, 'n it had human blood on it."

..what? Emmerson didn't understand. That knife didn't go missing until after Chester's murder. Then when Jason returned it, it had blood on it. He had thought it was from killing the rabbit-- they were stored together, after all. But that was apparently wrong. The knife had been used to attack someone else. Maybe the missing woman.. And now it was found in his home.

Wait, weren't cops just allowed to lie to suspects? How did he know O'Ryan was telling the truth? His expression turns from horror to suspicion as he meets O'Ryan's gaze again. O'Ryan is a bit thrown off by the sudden display of aggression, but he remains steadfast.

So what should Emmerson do? He really didn't know anything about the blood. The only things he's ever attacked with that knife have been pizza and UPS boxes. But he did already tell the officer that he hunted with knives. Goddamnit! What a stupid thing to say.

"I-I.. do-on't kno-ow.. Anything about that."

O'Ryan raised an eyebrow at the weak proclamation. "Yeah? Wanna explain why it was in yer house, then?"

Emmerson straightened his back, a bead of sweat running down it. "I..I lost it.. While hunting.." he pauses, carefully walking through the real events to construct the fake ones. "And.. I-I.. went to.. Investigate.. after I-I.. heard gunshots.. one night. I found it then.." Emmerson exhaled as deeply as he could without making it too obvious. He thought that was probably a good story.

O'Ryan thought about it. The implication was that the killer had found his knife and used it to commit the murder, and Emmerson only found it after that. This was a big knife, sure, but it was ultimately a kitchen knife. The murder weapon was thought to be something like a machete. And, wasn't it raining the night of the murder? Wouldn't the blood have washed off? Unless it was found inside a cabin or some similar place. Emmerson did not mention where it was found.. He seemed like he was being purposefully vague.

They were locked in a staring contest. Emmerson broke it when he considered O'Ryan's words one more time: he said the _knife_ had blood on it. But another object was bloodied in his home: the sofa. And that one was just as important. Why didn't he mention that? Shouldn't that have been human blood, too? It was Jason's blood.

"W..what about.. the so-o-ofa?"

O'Ryan froze. "What about it?"

"What.. was the blood on it?"

_Shit!_ O'Ryan hadn't meant to give it away.

"Still runnin' tests on that one.." it was a sort of half-truth. "But I think we both know what we'll find." He smirked. Emmerson hated that answer, because he was certain it was correct. They'd determine it was Jason's blood, and he'd be absolutely fucked.

" 'n hey, Hayward," O'Ryan leaned in towards him. "How 'bout that flannel?"

Emmerson didn't have a great explanation for that. He could get away with the knife by being purposefully vague. But the flannel was not his own object, so he didn't have a reliable record of the item's locations. He could say that he found it with the knife, but where? Its owner, Chester Tilson, had a surviving friend who could potentially know about where it should've been. It was at the camp, and she may have remembered that. If Emmerson had gone towards the camp the same night he heard the gunshots, and that's where and when he found the knife, then he would've had to actually go inside the cabin to retrieve this flannel. He probably would've come across Chester's dead body during that time. Then he would have to explain why he didn't do anything about that. He could say that he returned to the camp later (which was true), but he'd have to explain why he ventured back into the camp while well aware of the shooting that had occurred. In any case, he had to say something.

"I-I found it.. at the camp.. with the knife.."

"You have a habit of takin' any dirty clothes you come across?"

..yeah, he didn't really have a good reason for that one. Most people didn't take clothes from places like that. He bowed his head, subconsciously displaying his submission. O'Ryan could not be happier. A devilish grin spread across his face. He crouched down next to Emmerson, trying to convey a faux sense of commonality.

"Lissen, Hayward," he whispered in the silent room. "I don't think you killed anyone. I don't. Really." Emmerson glanced at him, unsure of what to believe. "But I think you know somethin' you're not tellin' me."

"I..." Emmerson goes to say something, but what, exactly? What _can_ he say in this situation? He could tell the truth. It would implicate him in the purchase of human corpses, but that had to be a less severe charge than _murder._ But how could he tell O'Ryan the truth? It all sounded so fantastical. He would never believe it, not truly. Emmerson himself didn't even know how to explain it all. And even if O'Ryan did believe him, then what? It's not like they're gonna take Jason-fucking-Voorhees on trial. That just wasn't gonna happen. In the end, Emmerson felt this would all fall onto him, one way or another.

"Hayward," O'Ryan whispered to him again, trying to bring him back into reality. He could tell that he was right-- the guy was hiding something, and he was considering whether or not to spill it. He couldn't let Emmerson have too much time to wriggle his way into a new explanation.

"I.. I-I.. kno-ow.. where the k-killer is." O'Ryan's eyes lit up at the words. He looked borderline manic. "I-I c-can tak-ke you there." 

***

Even with the effluvium destroyed, the threat was not yet neutralized. They needed to do one more thing, and they weren't very excited about it.

Technically, Aspen was allowed at the iconostasis, but only when absolutely necessary. Aspen was fine with that. They hated being there. It was uncomfortable. They felt like it wasn't their space-- like they didn't belong.

Aspen ascended the stairs, letting the soft creaks of the rotting boards fill their ears. The watchers had quieted down, eagerly watching Aspen.

They reached that hallway. The door to the iconostasis was directly in front of the stairwell. The smell that emanated from it was like no other. It was like organic earth, tinged with copper and ash. They pressed their forehead against the door as they gripped the iron doorknob. It turned silently. Aspen took one final, deep breath before slowly nudging the door open, face-first into the room. The groaned as it opened, as if it were also unwilling to let this happen.

The walls and floor were the same in this room: small white tiles. It was, at one time, a bathroom. The sink, mirror, and toilet had all been removed, leaving only a white enameled bathtub. Despite everything having been originally colored white, the inside immediately appeared a burnt, rusted orange. The room's only light source was a collection of candles conglomerated above the bathtub. They were all made of the same beige wax, and at one time were all cylindrical. Puppy insisted that candles burn constantly, and as such, new candles were placed on top of old ones, sometimes before they burned out. Eventually, the foundations of their shape were melted away, and they dripped down into each other, constructing what is now a homogenized, amorphous candle-mass. The bathtub was repurposed into a container for holding sacrificial bodies-- that is, Jason's kills. They would hold the remains until they began to decompose, although blood and fleshy debris would still be left over. This would rot inside the room, owing its foul odor.

Above the candle-mass was a purposefully-made opening in the wall. Just inside was the decapitated head of Pamela Voorhees. It had presumably been in Jason's possession since her death, as police never recovered it from the scene. Jason regularly embalmed and re-embalmed it to slow decomposition, although it had clearly decayed significantly over the past several decades. The rest of the wall housed sigils, originally created elsewhere before being transposed onto the iconostasis. The sigils could have been drawn on any material, from scraps of clothing to tree bark to paper, forming a bizarre patchwork across the wall of nearly two-dozen esoteric symbols. The transposition of the sigils had both symbolic and practical significance. Symbolically, the sigils' transfer to this shrine to his mother represented the offering of not just a body for her, but an entire _being._ The essence of a person, in addition to their earthly vessel. Practically, it shielded the marking from destruction, either from trespassers or from the natural elements.

Over twenty souls were trapped in this place. Aspen could hear their indistinct whispering. Who they were talking to and what they were saying, Aspen did not know. There was too much at one time. Everything about this room was overwhelming: the whispers, the odor, the flickering of the candle flames. It's at least a large part of why they hated it.

Aspen would not prostrate themself at this shrine. It would be humiliating, but it may also be inappropriate. Pamela was not their patron saint. They would compromise by kneeling in front of the altar. It was built by Jason, for Jason, and he had intended to have to look up slightly to see his mother's face, thus establishing a symbolic power dynamic between the two. Aspen, who was much, much smaller, had to look almost straight up to see the woman's atrophied face.

"Pam-el-a." They whispered into the room. It was about the same volume as the others. They heard no change in the spirits' volume or speech patterns, nor did they hear any new voices.

"Pam-ela." They say it again, a little louder. "Are you there?"

There was nothing.

"Pup--.. Jason.. believes.. mother re-in-carn-ated as.. elu-cid-ator. Pam-ela?"

...

"Could really hurt.. Jason.. Want to.. protect him.. is.. a very good boy.. Need to.. protect.."

Aspen looked into that ever-stoic face. The shining of the candles, lit from below, made the shading of her decrepit head appear sinister and judgemental, as if sneering at Aspen's plees. It made them even more resentful of her. Her personhood, her memory, her place in this home, her apostatic deification as some kind of replacement all-mother. Her expression which seemed to say, _"How could you protect anyone? You kill everything you touch."_

"Do you.. do you not believe.. am worthy, Pam-ela?" Aspen hunched slightly, huddling closer to the floor. Still, she did not answer, and the expression remained disdainful.

Aspen lurched up, hands on the bathtub, lifting themself up to look closer at her.

"Do you hate me, Pam-ela?" they whispered. "Do you hate me?"

She did not answer. Aspen felt their chest tighten, and a smile spread across their round, candlelit face.

"Then hate me."

***

Jason was at the pier. As the sun began to set, it lit up his white mask, showing every scratch and crevice on its surface. Jason did not have to worry about being seen here anymore: people rarely came to Camp Crystal Lake, and if they did, they would not last long. But he wore his mask anyway. It had become almost an extension of his body by this point. When he wasn't wearing it, he felt like he was missing some part of himself. He would fill up with anxiety, sometimes progressing into full-on panic. Even when the 'other' was not there to see him, he could still feel their mocking, disparaging stares.

He looked over the edge, feeling a little braver than usual. The flat, white portrait of his 'face' stared back at him. So far as he was concerned, this was the image of himself that he would prefer to be seen and known as.

He stepped back, overcome with nerves as he gazed into the water.

He could not hear his mother's voice today. He did not hear it yesterday, either. The past few days she had been so quiet. Why? Where did she go? Was she mad at him?

She was almost always there. He didn't have to be any one place to hear her. She followed him, wherever he was at the camp. She'd whisper to him, her voice exactly as he remembered it.

For a short time, he missed her terribly. He longed to see her, and that is why he took her head. But he could not feel her touch or hear her voice. It was impossible from a human standpoint, but he wanted to believe she was there, watching over him. He wanted to believe she was smiling on him as he killed off the outsiders who had caused both of them so much pain. That she was very, very proud of him. He wanted to believe it was possible, because his place in this world was null if he could not please her.

He could hear the watchers. They were there, they spoke, but rarely were they coherent, and they were never very nice. Slowly, he began to hear one voice among that mass which was so small, so quiet, but it was unmistakable. She was there. He had heard it, so he believed. She was 'real' and he knew it.

So soon, he began to hear her more and more. She'd talk to him constantly. She'd tell him what a good boy he was, and how happy she was that he was slaughtering everyone that came into the camp. She said they deserved it, and that they were very bad, and that meant that it was okay. Jason wasn't doing anything wrong, really: humans have always tolerated violence against evildoers. The bible gives its adherents permission, and sometimes even moral obligation, to put to death those who commit gross sin. The state has instituted laws which permit execution of criminals who threaten the well-being of the nation. Yes, humans have always embraced violence against the wicked, and Jason was just another iteration of a force which delivers justice. He was an _executioner._ And his mother said she was so proud to have such a virtuous son.

She was never mean to him. She never said any of the bad things she said to him when they were alive. Never said he was bad, or good-for-nothing, or worthless, or stupid, or a mistake, or that her life would be better without him. No, she was only her kind, loving, motherly self. Why didn't she say any of the bad things..? Well, maybe she really was possessed by a demon or a bad spirit, and when she died, that spirit died, too. So it was just his good, 'real' mother now. He didn't think about it very much. He wanted to forget about those mean things she said. Forget about it, forget about it..

But he still wanted to see her. Not just as that decapitated head, which could not smile at him. He wanted to feel her arms around him. He wanted to cuddle up next to her and fall asleep. He wanted her so, so much. But no matter how much he wanted it, no matter how much he dreamt and believed and wished, she never came back as anything but a voice. Why? She loved him so much, she said so. He came back, so why couldn't she? He didn't know.

He looked for her in others: maybe she came back, but she thinks she's somebody else. He found a couple of people who he thought might have been her. He tried to make them realize. Her voice even stopped talking to him, so he thought for sure that meant that her spirit was now really in that person. But in the end, they weren't her. Not really. And then her voice came back.

It wasn't until Aspen came that he learned why she couldn't come back: it was because not enough people believed she was 'real.' She was definitely 'real' to him, but to the outside world, Pamela Voorhees was dead. And they believed that, so that was what was 'real.' He didn't know how to make more people believe. It seemed impossible. But Aspen said they'd help him bring her back. They said they would.

But it had been ten years. She still wasn't back. She was gone, still. Her voice talked to him still, throughout those ten years. And she told him to have faith and to believe, but in the past year, he began to lose hope. And she began to question whether Aspen knew what they were doing, too. Aspen didn't seem to like her very much. They got all quiet and prickly whenever she was brought up. And they didn't like the altar, or even his killings. Maybe they didn't plan to bring her back at all.

And then there was the 'elucidator.' The doctor-scientist. He took out the bullets from his chest and let him sleep in his home. He really took care of him: he was _good._ He was just like mom. He had the same tone of voice. He stuttered, but the diction was the same. He even _looked_ a bit like her. Except.. a boy. Could that have been his flaw? He had assumed that his mother would return as a girl, but did spirits really have a gender? He didn't know, but he didn't know why that would have to be the case, either. Maybe a boy really could be his mother.

And then he gave him that sea glass. Oh, he was so kind! And he stayed there with him, sleeping in mother's bed, just like she used to do. He stared at him all night. He was _just_ like her. And the more he stared, the more he looked like her. And mother's voices completely stopped. He was convinced during that night that this really was her. It had to be.

And now Aspen wanted to take her away? It seemed to confirm every suspicion he'd had about his companion: that they hated mother and they wanted to keep them apart. He didn't know what to do at this very moment, but he did know that Aspen could not stop him from being with his mother, and he would do _anything_ to ensure that.

The inside of Jason's skull began to itch. He brought his hands to his temples, closing his eyes and waiting for it to subside. But it didn't. It only got worse. It began to burn. The pressure on the inside of his head felt like his brain was boiling, little bubbles of grey matter rising and popping and ready to drip out of his ears. Outsiders were coming.

Jason always knew when an outsider was in his territory. The sensation could not be ignored. It was the human equivalent of bugs or larvae crawling underneath the skin, wriggling its little legs across your insides. It needed out. _Now._

He was going to excise it.


	19. Chapter 19

Emmerson didn't want to do this, but he was left with no choice. He couldn't think of a coherent lie to tell O'Ryan, and he knew he wouldn't believe the truth. His only option was to bring him to the killer's home, so that O'Ryan could see what he was dealing with for himself.

Before they left, he met someone named Billie Brovchenka-- she was a somewhat chubby, and rather exhausted-looking, East Asian woman. Billie was one of Chester's friends, and she was apparently the one who had shot the killer that night. Emmerson imagined she had probably been through hell the last few days. Still, despite her obvious fatigue, she insisted on going with them to the killer's home. Maybe she was holding a grudge.

The drive to Camp Crystal Lake was completely silent for the majority of the ride. Emmerson had sensed that the conditions between Billie and O'Ryan were a little frosty. He didn't care for O'Ryan very much himself, and he wasn't going to force the sickly woman to converse with him. It wasn't until they passed under the camp's archway that O'Ryan filled them in on how he wanted this to go. He instructed them to stay within arm's reach of him, and to let him lead. Billie had her own gun, although he was discouraged from using it, except in an absolute emergency. Emmerson did not get the privilege of having a weapon, although he did convince O'Ryan to do away with the handcuffs. Emmerson didn't have the heart to tell them that their guns probably wouldn't help them very much.

They parked near where Billie had parked her own car. It's been like Groundhog Day ever since that night. She shuddered as the events replayed again in her mind. Emmerson watched her, guilt opening a void in his chest as he realized that her trauma wounds would only deepen from here out.

The three walked through the grass, making their way to the forest's edge. Soft, pumpkin-spiced sunlight shined through the interstices of the treetops. Cicadas hummed their love songs. The last bits of the daytime summer heat were drifting away over the horizon. It would be an enchanting evening, if not for these circumstances.

Emmerson stood there, at the edge. Just stood. Motionless, wordless.

"Hayward," O'Ryan was very eager to get going.

"Wait.." Emmerson held up a hand, much to O'Ryan's displeasure. He listened. He was worried at first-- the forest had been unusually quiet. He relied on it to get to the Voorheees house. He didn't know how to get there on his own. But sure enough, their shimmery whispers began to pick up again. He began to follow the rustling and the breeze.

_Are you SURE?_

The voice stopped him only after a few steps, paralyzed in fear. It happened again. The voice. It was his own voice, but he had not thought it. Something was speaking in his head, using his own voice. He tried to push past it, putting one shaky step in front of the other.

_Super-duper sure~?_

It giggled. The first one felt like a warning, but this time, it was just mocking him. He knew this was a stupid idea, but he had no choice. There was something wrong here. This was the lion's den, and he was choosing to walk straight into it. He assumed that voice was his conscience. Some part of himself that was always there, just below the surface, ready to tell his foolish self when he was making a mistake. How else would he interpret it? As an evil spirit? Some kind of supernatural being, just watching him, reveling in the histrionics that were guaranteed to unfold tonight?

He looked back at Billie and O'Ryan. The latter looked only impatient. The former no longer looked ill, but she did look uncomfortable. Did she hear it too?... No, of course not. Emmerson was imagining things. They couldn't both be imaging the same thing at the same time.

Hey, maybe it would all be okay. After all, Emmerson still hadn't seen Jason actually kill anyone. It could just be one big ol' misunderstanding, right? Sure there was a dead body, and a knife coated with human blood, and a woman who was friends with the deceased shot Jason three times. But that didn't prove anything.

...

Wishful thinking aside, what would Jason do..? Did Emmerson just sentence himself to death? Would it have been better to just confess to the murder? At least he would have had a while longer to live, and he wouldn't have been taking two other people down with him. Each step, Emmerson felt he brought the trio closer to their execution, only made more surreal by his prison jumpsuit.

Before long, the house came into view. The sky above the canopy had turned soft yellow and powder pink. Crickets were chirping. Watchers were snickering. The forest became quieter and darker as the house came closer into view. Only the house remained in Emmerson's focus, as if under a limelight. The remaining thespians approached the house, and Emmerson stopped just short of the porch steps. O'Ryan and Billie inspected its rickety exterior for the first and final time.

"Well.. there it is." he gestured unceremoniously. The front door was closed. O'Ryan walked up the steps, Billie following behind, and Emmerson at the end. Before opening the door, O'Ryan turned to him.

"So, how'd you find the place, anyway?" he said with a frown. "You did know the killer after all..?"

Emmerson frowned in return. "It's.. a long story.." he sighed. "I-I.. will tell you.. after all this is over.." he was not so sure he'd live to tell the tale.

The front door actually did not lock, apparently-- Jason wasn't fond of locking front doors, it seemed. With a light push, the door moseyed open with a laborious squeak, revealing an unusually dark exterior. O'Ryan entered, his hand on his gun's holster. He drew it upon hearing the opening of a door and the skittering of rodents upstairs. Billie draws her flashlight, immediately pointing the light at the top of the staircase.

"Uu..." Aspen stood there, once again bringing their hands up to their face, shielding it from the blinding light. Their face was splotched with red and slightly dewy, as if they'd long been crying.

"Aspen!" Billie called for her. She somehow felt revitalized upon seeing them.

"Bill-ee.." they cooed. "...Bill-ee!" their voice became frantic. "Have to go! Now!"

"No, Aspen. This'll all be over soon," Billie walked towards them, ascending a few steps.

"Now!" they stamp down at the top of stairs, sounding and looking like an angry child.

Billie heard something she'd never heard before. It had a sort of buzzing quality, like when an insect flies too close to your ear. It was also oddly sharp, like the air had been cut with a swinging knife. The sound only lasted a single moment. Billie didn't even have time to turn around before she heard O'Ryan yell in agony.

She saw the officer, still standing in front of the doorway, an arrow pierced through his chest. It had entered from his back and exited the front, perpendicular to his body. He grasped at his chest, as if wanting to pull it out. He found the tip and pulled it slightly, only evoking another scream from him.

Billie had no time to think about her options. She turned to Aspen who looked disappointed, but not the least bit surprised.

" _Aspen!_ " she screamed this time. This had all happened once before. It was all exactly the same. She would keep their companion safe this time. Billie might have lost Noel, but she would not let Aspen go, too.

"No!" Aspen shouted back at her. "Go! Won't hurt me!" they looked confident and authoritative when they declared it. Everything in Billie told her to stay with Aspen, and to get them out of this house, if it were possible. But there was no time to argue that point, or she might not make it herself. It was probably true that if Aspen had lived this long in the forest, then they would probably survive this night. O'Ryan moved into the main room, exposing Billie at the entranceway. She rushed out the door. 

She could not see the killer, but she was certain he was out there. She sprinted around to the side of the house, and then to the back. Good, she'd survived that much. If the killer shot an arrow through the entrance, then there was no way he'd be able to shoot her when she's behind the house. But she couldn't afford to just sit there. She had to keep moving. Her eyes darted around, looking for the way back. There was only endless forest in her vision. Her anxiety rose inside of her as her hands pressed against the rotted siding of the house. She cast her vision downward, to a stump. To her left was a pile of wood. She snaked her way around the wood pile. Sure enough, an ax leaned against the side of the house. Her weakened, sweaty palms found its varnished handle, and she pulled it upwards. Was she ready to use this? She wasn't sure. Hopefully it wouldn't come to that. She started into the forest, holding the ax at her side as she ran.

_Didn't your mother teach you not to run with scissors?_

Someone laughed at her, in her own voice. This had happened before.

" _Where are you?!_ " She screamed into the woods. The question only echoed back at her. She realized how stupid that was. She just alerted the killer of where she was. She brought the ax diagonal to her body, the head facing outwards. She kept moving.

Emmerson had watched Billie sprint out the door. O'Ryan was panting in the main room, blood streaming from his mouth. He scowled at Emmerson, as if to suggest that this was his fault. He looked to the top of the stairs to see that escaped hospital patient glaring at him as well. He felt a disturbing lack of comradery in this time of need. He backed into the kitchen. The upstairs was blocked by the mouse-faced kid. He could run out of the house, like Billie did. Or he could just wait here. It's possible Jason wouldn't hurt him, even if he did bring two unwelcome outsiders to his dwelling-place. Emmerson wasn't really in the mood to find out either way, however.

There was one available route he hadn't yet tried: the door in the kitchen. He turned the knob to find it unlocked, and the door opened without complaint. Thank god for Jason's inability to use locks. Unfortunately, only the first few steps inside were lit by the residual light in the kitchen. He decides to take a chance, taking the first few visible steps, and then relying on touch for the rest of the way down.

Aspen figures they could just wait here for Puppy to slaughter the pig. There wasn't much they really could do to save him now. They could beg for him to spare Billie, but what good would that do? Even if she escapes again, she has the curse. She will die soon. But Aspen felt they had some of their own business to attend to right now. They go back into Puppy's childhood bedroom. It's filled to the brim with useless objects. Their eyes scan the toys, looking for something useful. They find it, propped up against his child-sized desk. Perfect. Aspen grabs it and makes their way downstairs. They turn to O'Ryan and give a final look of pity.

"Sorry." they mutter, before scuttling into the kitchen, hoping that the elucidator had not made it too far.

Jason is about fifty yards from the house. He watched Billie rush out the door and around the back. He recognized her: it was the girl who shot him a few nights ago. His first instinct was to chase after her, but he had to finish this one first. He had a feeling he'd missed his heart. The man was not bleeding as much as he'd hoped he would. He was unsure he'd bleed out if he left him now. He inched his way closer to the house, still clutching the bow, but ready to draw his machete whenever necessary.

O'Ryan was crouched near the mantle of the main room. He had drawn his gun, ready to fire at the first sight of the bastard. This was not an optimal situation. He heard nothing from outside, he saw nothing in the tiny sliver of the forest visible from his position. This was becoming a waiting game. O'Ryan knew the killer had a long-range weapon ready to use against him (again). And, he didn't know his location, except that he was somewhere outside, within the field of view of the doorway. It would take too much time to scout that area to find him. He could get another arrow in his chest before he even found him.

Something flashed in O'Ryan's vision. His finger itching to fire, he squeezed the trigger without processing what he'd seen. The bullet left the chamber and entered the wall just right of the door.

_Shit!_ The thing he'd seen was an arrow. It had been fired straight through the door and was sticking out of one of the steps-- nowhere near where O'Ryan was hunkered down. Did he fire that arrow to see if he had a gun? If that was his intention, then he knew now. Would the killer still come inside, now knowing that? O'Ryan gripped the gun, holding it as straight as he could, despite his shaking hands. He was now even jumpier than before, his brain trying to stay alert enough to identify and differentiate the appearance of either an arrow or a figure.

But it would not have to do so for long. A piercing flash of light overwhelmed his vision, followed by darkness. He tried to blink, but his right eyelid was blocked from closing. An arrow had shot through his eyeball and through his eye socket, penetrating his brain. He turned, the killer just outside the window, dressed in rags, donning a hockey mask. No, he wasn't trying to see if O'Ryan had a gun. That was just a bonus, or maybe he had already seen it on the cop's holster. He was watching the bullet. The killer wanted to determine his location, not his weapon. O'Ryan, so nervous and hyper-focused on the doorway, did not even notice that the monster had crept up to the window.

O'Ryan opened his mouth-- to speak? to scream? Neither of them knew, but it didn't matter. Jason released the bowstring for the final time, sending a third arrow through his half-opened mouth. O'Ryan's wobbly hands dropped the gun, falling to the floor with a mechanical _thunk_. Jason entered his home, staring at the body of the cop, now slumped against the mantelpiece. Blood poured from his eye and pooled in his mouth, bubbling with a few labored gargles before becoming stagnant. He titled his head, looking into the single eye of the deceased man, his corpse now locked with a permanent, wide, doe-eyed gaze.

***

Emmerson had a time advantage, but this was Aspen's home. They knew every twist and turn by heart, which paths connected and which were dead ends. They knew the location of the hatches outside-- the only exits. Aspen had failed every hunting trip up to now. They did not have the best of records when it came to extermination. But tonight would be the night. They would protect this place. This was their only home. Jason was their only family. They wouldn't let anybody take them away.

Emmerson pushed aside the hanging tassels and curtains that lined the tunnels. They were annoyingly ornate, making them relatively difficult to traverse through. They clinked together when he did, the bones and doll parts and beads dully clanging together, while a few had actual bells on the end, functioning like windchimes. Little did he know that their noisiness was purposeful, should an outsider ever wriggle their way into the tunnels. Aspen could hear where he was. He, on the other hand, had no idea where he was or where he was going. The tunnels were almost literally a maze, except that there was no end goal in sight.

He could hear something following him. Like a shadow, it repeated all of his movements, only quicker and less forcefully. He reached another dead end, but this time, it was a room. A room overflowing with random objects. It was very similar to Jason's childhood room, except without the 'child' part. In the same fashion, some staple furniture items revealed it to be a bedroom in the vaguest sense: a bedframe topped with mismatched blankets, a doorless wardrobe, and a non-functioning desk. He tried stepping around the floor's clutter, until he heard his shadow coming closer. He stepped on top of everything, trying to make his way to the wall, almost falling over a couple times from the poor footing.

On the wall were hooks, decorative knives and other objects hanging from them. He approached the largest of the weapons: a sickle.

Yes, a sickle. As in, the crescent-shaped blade designed for harvesting grains and grasses. No, he had never used one. Yes, he figured a knife would be easier to use. But it was big and scary looking, and he hoped that whoever was behind him would be intimidated by it. He pulled it from the wall, gazing at it in the dim light. Had it ever taken a life? He hears rustling from behind him once again. He turns to see his stalker: the hospital patient. They had changed out of their gown, but were still wearing the socks. In their hand was a metal baseball bat. Emmerson brought the sickle in front of them. Hadn't this happened once before? Yes, it had, except now his opponent was five feet tall.

"Wh.. Why are.." Emmerson didn't even know this person's name, let alone why they were doing this. He knew Jason's story. He thought he knew his motivations, even if they weren't that great of an explanation. But this person's grudge felt personal, like it wasn't simply the fact that he was on their turf. It was the fact that **_he_** was on their turf. "Why're y-you.. y-y-..."

Aspen's grip tightened on the bat. Their lip curls upwards.

"Trying to hurt Puppy!" they choke out, near-tears. Emmerson tries to piece it together. This person had to have known some basic information about him, because they called him a doctor and said he healed Jason. But why would they think that he hurt Jason, too? Jason obviously wasn't hostile towards him.. up to this point, at least. Hopefully it was still the case.

"N-no.. N-n-no, n-no, I was.. d-doing r-research.. I d-d-didn't want to hurt him!"

Aspen shook their head violently. "Hurting him! Killing him!" They brought the metal bat down hard onto the objects scattered across the floor, emitting a grating clash. "Not good enough! You're _not_ good enough! _Will_ kill him! Will!"

"I..." Emmerson didn't know how to respond. None of this made any sense. Aspen was incoherent. He couldn't have known what they meant, because their minds operated on two different planes of reality. He couldn't have known that only partially elucidating Jason's nature could lead to inconsistencies in this universe, and his ceasing to exist. Aspen was telling him he was not a good enough scientist to find all the answers. And if he did? The magic would still be gone once everyone knew.

Aspen began walking towards him. They knew this room by heart. Every piece of debris was mapped out perfectly in their head. They didn't even need to look down. Emmerson leaned against the wall, walking along it until he reached the bedframe. He stepped onto it to get the high ground. He towered over the tiny creature, his sickle still extended towards them. Aspen held the bat to their side and stopped once they were within arm's length of Emmerson. They looked him up and down, apparently assessing the threat. On top of the frame, he knew the creature was no match. He had the upper hand here.

Which is why it was so surprising to feel the crunch of his ribs as the bat's tip smashed against his abdomen. He reflexively brings his left hand to his freshly-bashed ribcage, only to wince away from his fingers as they intensified the pain.

"W-what the f-fuck?!" Emmerson did not believe they would actually do it. Aspen themself looked dumbfounded that they actually did. But there was no time to consider their feelings on the matter. Puppydog's life was on the line. Aspen raised the bat for a second time, preparing for another blow. Emmerson didn't want to strike them-- well, actually, he kind of did now-- but it was the only option with the bat threatening to strike. He swung the sickle at them in a single dive, and then pulled the blade straight out in the same direction. Aspen's head turned, their face and wound obscured by their mess of hair, They looked up, slowly, bringing their free hand up to their face. On their left cheek was a ovular gash that resulted from the end of the sickle. They stuck a finger in it. It went all the way into their mouth.

Emmerson was horrified to have done something of that severity, but despite their distraction, Aspen was still fully capable of attacking again. He kicked their chest, knocking them to the ground along with the bat. They let out an anguished moan, the finger in their wound apparently pulling it when they fell. Emmerson himself groaned as he tried to climb off the bed, his ribcage protesting against his jerky movements. He pushed through it, finding his way to the floor, picking up the bat. Without a second thought, he brings it down onto Aspen's shin. They let out a deafening screech, which did not stop as Emmerson repeatedly hit the same spot. Only when Aspen's screams wound down into sobs did he cease his onslaught. He looked down at it closely for the first time. The bone had broken at some point, and the upper half was now poking out of the skin. Aspen's subdued sobs only worsened Emmerson's realization of the brutality he'd just inflicted. But he was afraid. He'd practically been scared shitless for the past few days and he was not going to die here.

"D..d-d-do y-you.." he gasped for air, "have.. any k-kind of.. healing powers? C-can y-you.. regenerate or something?" the words sounded ridiculous leaving his mouth.

Aspen shook their head, blood and tears dripping down their reddened face. Emmerson did not know if he believed them. Their dog certainly could, so he wouldn't be surprised if they could, too. He didn't want to kill them, but he sure as hell didn't want another stalking incident. He wanted to make sure they were down for a good while.

"W-what's.. y-your d-d-dominant hand?"

"R-right.."

Emmerson plodded over to their right side. Aspen waited, terrified.

"Put it up."

Aspen obeyed, and nudging around the surrounding clutter, Emmerson pushed it flat against the floor, running in the same direction as their body. He secured his boot over Aspen's wrist. He swung the bat for the last time, against their elbow. Aspen gasped sharply, but did not scream or cry out. They held the breath for a long time before slowly exhaling, their eyes still alive, but drained of hope.

Emmerson decided to take the bat, just for good measure. He got his sickle, too. He turned to the bloodied teenager, who was silent, but who still had tears running down their face as they stared at the ceiling, completely absent. He is reminded of when he dismembered those bodies.

"I'm sorry." he really meant it. 


	20. Chapter 20

Billie couldn't tell if she was getting any closer to the town, or, fuck, even the camp. There's a car there, at least. There really aren't any defining or memorable characteristics to this forest, so she can't even tell if she's going in circles or not. She just tried to keep moving, remembering the arrow that shot through O'Ryan. At least a moving target would be harder to hit. It was hard to stay cognizant of everything while constantly moving. A couple of times, she almost walked into bear traps. She wanted to keep an eye on her feet, but she didn't want to miss anything up ahead, either. She didn't know this terrain, and it showed.

She wondered if Aspen was okay. They were annoying and a lot of trouble, but she thought they seemed like a victim in this, too. For some reason.. she seemed to feel a little better around them, too. It was the strangest thing, and she couldn't explain it. She just felt _physically_ better around them. Billie thought it was the camp, but she felt the same way when she was at the hospital with them. And now that she left them again, the sickness was starting to set in.

She stopped, just for a second, leaning against an oak tree. Just to catch her breath. It was only when she stopped that she realized how nauseous she was. Her head started to spin, and she almost fell over.

_Not good when you're holding an ax!_

The voice again.. mocking her. She looked around, but it was the same as always. Nobody was there.

She stops.

She heard leaves crunching.

She holds her breath. She presses the handle of the ax against her body.

The leaves stop crunching.

_Get ready! 3.. 2.. 1.._

Billie was brought out of her fixation by a machete swinging into the tree behind her. It sliced into her arm, albeit not too deep. She squeaked, hugging the ax even harder, turning around to see the figure only a few short feet from her. It was the same figure she'd seen that night. Dressed in rags with a hood up, his form was similarly obscured, but she could see now from this distance that he did indeed wear a mask.

"Too scared to show your face, fucker?!" Billie realized that this modern-day Goliath was probably much better suited for this fight than her, but she didn't care. She was angry and she wanted this asshole dead. She thought she'd already finished the job once, but apparently, the sight in front of her proved otherwise.

He pressed his boot against the tree, trying to lurch out the machete. Billie takes advantage of his situation, lunging towards him, ready to rip him open with the ax. Jason lets go of the blade's handle, stepping back to avoid the ax's attack. As the ax misses, he clutches Billie's short hair between his fingers and hurls her against the tree. She cries out, but attempts to swing the ax anyway. To both of their surprise, she is successful, despite her head being smashed up against a tree. She manages to thrust the head of the ax into Jason's stomach, causing him to let go of her. She can feel blood dribbling down the side of her head, with pieces of bark and lichen embedded in her skin. She rips the ax from his stomach and brings it up again, this time striking his face and knocking off his mask.

He immediately brings his hands to his face, although, to Billie's surprise, he is not reaching for the fresh wound on the left side of his face. He was going to hide the left side of his face, a reaction that appeared near-automatic. He scowls at her, combing forward strands of long, reddish hair to hide his deformities. Billie could just barely see it, but she didn't care about that as much as the exposure of his skin. She hadn't noticed it before, the first time because of the darkness, and just earlier because of her adrenaline. His skin was bluish-grey and flaking off in spots. His scleras were dark yellow. He looked.. necrotic. He looked.. not fully alive, but not dead, either.

It confirmed her worries that she really had shot this man three times and it simply didn't kill him. She didn't believe that she was fighting a human right now.

So her gun was practically worthless. How the fuck is she supposed to kill him, then?

Maybe she can't kill him.

But that doesn't mean she can't stop him.

She yelled as she charged him again. She 'missed' the abdomen, and instead sliced his forearm. She rushed him again, not allowing him a single moment to gather himself, still distraught from having his face exposed. This time, she brings the ax in front of her body, using it as a sort of battering ram. It works spectacularly, knocking the giant down. The wound-be David attacks Jason's already injured forearm-- slicing off his hand and wrist. Seeing his darkened blood accumulate below, her lungs fill with pure ecstasy as she inhales.

She quickly steadies herself, ready for it again. She decides she will end it now, aiming instead to decapitate him. But Jason has steadied himself as well. He intercepts the ax, grabbing the handle just beneath the head with his one hand. The other arm instinctively raised as well, though obviously there was no hand to grasp the ax with, leading only to blood sputtering out onto both of them. Billie pressed down with all of her weight, forcing everything she had into that weapon. She couldn't let him get on the offensive. While she focused on the ax, Jason rose a leg up and kicked her in the diaphragm, breaking her stance and dissipating her power from the ax. He seizes it himself.

He climbs to his feet, unsteady, but determined. She tried to run, but she didn't get far.

He clutches the ax and thrusts it into her shoulder blade, ripping it downward only slightly before tearing it out of her. Blood sprays out in a thin sheet. She falls forward, face full of leaves.

She did fight well. Jason was willing to give her that. She was strong, and she was brave to venture here a second time. He wished there was some way to give her an honorable death, but he didn't know what that would be.

He decided a quick and painless death would be almost as good. He brought the ax down on her neck, severing it from her head in a single, clean cut. He mentally praised her a final time before laying down the ax over her body. The forest was silent as it mourned the warrior's demise.

***

Emmerson couldn't find the exit. Or the entrance. This was like exploring the catacombs. He would keep retracing the same path, and every time he thought he was getting back to the entrance, he'd reach a dead end. A few times, he found a spot that looked like it was under floorboards. A little light would shine through the cracks, but he couldn't break through them. There didn't appear to be a way to open it, like a latch or a handle. So he simply moved on.

It was not until the fourth time he passed the same gas mask, embedded into the dirt wall at eye level, did he decide it was time to reconsider his strategy. He did not want to keep retracing the same spots over and over, and it would be _really_ awkward if he ended up back in Aspen's room.

He had been following the more illuminated tunnels, because of course he would. Why would he walk face-first into a pitch black tunnel? But he remembered that's essentially what he did when he first descended, so to get back to the surface entrance, he'd have to go into the dark.

It was not easy to do after everything that just happened. He worried what could be waiting for him at the end of those paths. It's so scary, facing the unknown. It's so much easier to just retrace the same steps, over and over again. It's comfortable, it's known. But you don't get any further.

In spite of his fear, he reached it. The inky interior of the narrow tunnel opened abruptly into a large, hollow room. He was at the mouth of it all. Sure enough, when he gazed upwards, he saw the gentle light of the kitchen, brightening the top of the stairs. He stumbled to the far left wall, gliding across it until he bumped into a ledge, and slowly ascended each step, until he reached the kitchen, greeted with the familiar smell of rot.

And the corpse of Officer O'Ryan.

Peering straight ahead, Emmerson could see through the kitchen's entrance and into the main room, vaguely seeing O'Ryan's body slumped onto the floor against the fireplace mantel. Emmerson didn't know if he was actually dead, but he doubted O'Ryan had decided to lay down right now. Still holding the baseball bat and the sickle, he paces towards the body, each step worsening the sight in front of him. At the end, O'Ryan's body was less than six feet away. The arrow stuck out of his chest. Another in his right eye, and another through his mouth. Emmerson hated this guy, but even this seemed too gruesome a fate. Maybe it was quick, at least. His gun lay in front of him. It seems it didn't help him very much.

Emmerson turns away and heads upstairs. He looked into Jason's room. Despite the childish furnishings, it is conspicuously devoid of childish innocence. He sets the baseball bat inside and heads back down the hall.

He passes by the middle room. He is no longer afraid to enter it, but also no longer has any desire to do so.

He reaches the end of the hall. Ms. Voorhees' room. He sets the sickle down on the nightstand, a bloodstain still present on its tip. He throws open just the top blanket and settles down inside it. This bed really is soft. The light is dimming again. He closes his eyes, he's ready to go to sleep. But the world has other plans.

He hears the creaking of the floorboards downstairs, and the ever-familiar slow, heavy footsteps coming to the second floor. He can see down the hallway from his bed. He stops at the top of the stairs, turning his head directly right, acknowledging Emmerson. A woman's body is slung over his shoulder, dripping blood. He breaks his gaze and enters the middle room, unconcerned with Emmerson's presence. Five minutes later, he re-emerged, body apparently left there. He enters his mother's room. 

Emmerson realizes that his mask is gone. It's the first time he's seen Jason without his mask since he dragged him out of the camp. He's surprised that Jason isn't wearing it, but judging by his avoiding eye contact and his hair covering his face, Emmerson assumes it probably wasn't his choice. It's also the first time he's seen him without a mask while conscious. His countenance is similar to that of Aspen's: blank, but Jason's is uniquely submissive. He waits in the doorway, head bowed, looking somewhere around Emmerson but never directly at him.

"You c-can c-come in.."

He looks up only slightly, and appears a little happier at the words, his lips almost forming a twisted, anxious smile. He approaches the nightstand, tilting his head slightly at the sickle before reaching for something in his pocket.

It's his hand.

Yes, of course it's his own severed hand. What else would it have been? He sets it down with the same casual air anyone would with their keys or wallet. Circling the bed to the other side, he nuzzles into Emmerson in the same way he had done the other night. Without his mask, he can watch Jason's expression this time. There isn't a good word for it, but 'content' would be the closest approximation. Unlike last time, where Jason's eyes remained open, this time they fluttered as he tried to keep them open, but failed when faced with his mental exhaustion. He brought an arm around Jason's shoulder, hugging him closer to his body. He let his own exhaustion take over.

He didn't have any dreams that night. When he woke up, he was more tired than when he'd fallen asleep, despite having supposedly slept soundly. He was still next to Jason, whose eyelids flickered with unsettling energy. Like a dog dreaming he was hunting a squirrel or chasing a cat. Except, for Jason, it was probably..

Well, you know.

Emmerson's left hand 'fell' off the bed. Jason didn't respond.

It creeped down across the bedframe, finding the lower part of the nightstand. Jason didn't respond.

It very carefully inched up the nightstand. This was the tricky part: getting Emmerson's shoulder socket to twist the right way. It was awkward and a little uncomfortable, and apparently Jason didn't like those movements either, as he nuzzled his face into Emmerson, hiding his eyes. Emmerson couldn't tell if that was better or worse.

He turned his head to his target. How was he going to get a good hold on the handle? He should've planned it better when he set it down. He looked at Jason's severed hand, sitting there next to the sickle. He wondered if Billie had gotten the same idea as him. Obviously, there wasn't much that was going to kill Jason. Whether or not he could be killed in any meaningful way was still a mystery, regardless of what the hospital patient had said. But he could keep him from hurting people, even if he didn't 'die.'

He grabbed the sickle's handle. Oh.. it was actually pretty easy, but... what now? How is he supposed to do this with such an awkwardly-shaped weapon, in such an awkward position.

Jason hasn't moved since nuzzling into Emmerson's side. He very, very slowly brings the sickle up, arm fully extended above them, grasping the weapon. His muscles begin to ache as he keeps it there, studying Jason's upper body for an appropriate target. Could he... nestle it between his body and his neck? No.. the most straightforward method would be to bring the tip and inside blade to the underside of his neck, and pull upwards. But would that be enough force? Emmerson was not very strong.

It was now or never, Emmie.

He takes a deep breath, sluggishly curving his arm over Jason's sleepy body. The curved blade finds its home waiting in the space just under Jason's neck. Emmerson waited for a few seconds, just to make sure he was really ready for this. He could just barely see a hint of Jason's peaceful, resting eyes, pressed against Emmerson's side. He brings the blade inward and up just slightly, just short of his skin. Jason shifts slightly, snuggling in closer, and Emmerson takes it as a cue to likewise cuddle the sickle right up to his flesh.

He inhales deep. He meant to exhale, but his nerves would not let him. His breathing stopped, and it would not continue until he did it.

Emmerson pulled the sickle with all the force he could muster. But it was not enough, perhaps because of his physical weakness, or because of the weapon's dull edge, or something else holding him back. A deep gash forms in Jason's neck, with thick, dark red blood lazily leaking from the wound. Jason's eyes roll forward and he draws back, a look of fear and confusion plastered onto his face. He brings his hand up to his neck as Emmerson sits up, bringing the sickle into the air again.

But he's stopped, looking at Jason. To his shock, Jason does not even try to fight or subdue him. He doesn't try to take the weapon. He only brings his arms-- what's left of them-- across himself, staring at Emmerson with wide, beginning eyes. He did not look angry. Just betrayed.

Emmerson strikes again, slicing off a couple of Jason's fingers on the remaining hand. He tucks his face into the crooks of his arms, but Emmerson cannot have it. He grabs the matted tufts of red hair and surges back Jason's head, exposing his injured neck. Emmerson rests the sickle on the opposite side of his neck, but realizes that this would probably not be a quick or easy job, even with Jason's passivity. He can't think about it too much, or he'll hesitate.

He slices his neck again, but the head doesn't come off. Jason yelps in pain. It is the first time Emmerson hears his voice.

Emmerson places a pillow over Jason's head so he doesn't have to see his face. He forces the cushion down with one hand and resumes cutting Jason's neck with the other.

It felt like forever he was sitting there, just hacking away. It was difficult to cut through the bone and sinewy masses, but Jason's body had given up some time before the head came off. With a satisfying if unceremonious snap of the right-side trapezius, Jason's head disconnected from his body. Emmerson didn't want to look at it. He threw a blanket over the head and pillow, pulling out the covered cushion and wrapping up the decapitated head.

There was still much to be done, but it's not like it was something he hadn't done before. The sickle was not a great weapon for this job, but he was too nervous to leave the body. It might get up and start walking around for all he knew. With repeated hacking of the blade, he began breaking down the person into his constituent parts. At a point, Emmerson was no longer aware of what he was doing. It was easier to just dissociate.

At the conclusion, the room was near-coated in half-rotted blood. The ivory quilts and bedding were irreparably stained a blackish-red and a metallic odor permeated the room. Emmerson had not meant to cause such a mess, but it was inevitable with his weapon and the force that was required to break down the body. Jason's biology became no less perplexing upon complete dissection: similar to his skin, most of his tissues appeared partially or fully necrotic. How he functioned was a complete mystery.

Emmerson gathered all of the pieces on a quilt, including the covered head, and began dragging it down the hallway. This was no easy task. At his height and mass, Jason had to have weighed at least 225 pounds. The body parts fell down each step of the stairs with an arduous, unnerving thump. He passed by O'Ryan's body again, the blood having darkened somewhat but otherwise looking the same as before. He glanced back up at the top of the stairs, at the door to the middle room. He reckoned Billie's body was still in there, but he didn't care to see it.

When outside, he opened the quilt, the decayed, fleshy parts staring back at him. The rest of the day would consist of the job that he had asked Jason himself to perform just a couple of days ago. He needed to bury them, far apart enough that he could be confident they wouldn't have an easy time congregating again. He wasn't as concerned with burying them six feet under, though.

They found their homes across the forest and campsite. Emmerson took his time with it. Not like he was in any hurry. The head was last. He dropped it into the lake, off of the pier, weighted down with rocks.

He just wanted to sit there for a little bit and think about what had happened. The forest picked up, the faint sound of laughter and applause growing with every passing second. They cheered on the spectacular performance of their final thespian, the wonderful, tragic ending granted to their favorite actor, and the respite of the usual ending which they had grown so accustomed to. Emmerson's ears filled with their obnoxious praise.

"Oh, fuck off." 


	21. Epilogue

Carl William O'Ryan and Billie Brovchenka were declared dead. Neither was very surprising. The arrow which pierced O'Ryan's eye had reached his brain, killing him in less than 120 seconds. Billie was decapitated and died instantly. Her body was found inside the bathroom of the Voorhees house, inside a bathtub. It appeared to be fashioned into some type of shrine. Her head was never found.

Frances O'Ryan had her baby. A boy. She didn't name him Carl, as per her husband's wishes. Marcel O'Ryan was born a little early, but was otherwise healthy. She hoped he would follow in his father's footsteps. What she knew of them, anyway. Marcel's only knowledge of his father were limited to the stories that his mother and other townspeople told of him. The stories were odd, and he always felt he was getting some kind of watered-down version, even from his own mother. The basic premise was the same: his father was killed in the line of duty while investigating a murder case. The particulars were hidden from him, and it would not be until his early teenage years that he was told that his father died while investigating the legends of Camp Crystal Lake. He had heard those myths, of course: everyone in Crystal Lake had. It had a playful air among the kids of the town, the sort of place that was the subject of unfulfilled dares and which every child embellished slightly to impress or scare each other.

But when his mother recounted the tale, she looked genuinely horrified. She told him to never, _ever_ go into the campsite, or the forest. When he found out that his father died at that camp, he was angry. He demanded to know why she'd forbid him to go to the place his father lost his life. Obviously, it was because she didn't want him, her only child and the last living remnant of her husband, to meet the same fate that her first love had. He asked her how she could say that, when solving the legend was apparently important enough that he risked his life trying to do it. Didn't she want to know what he'd died for? She thought about it, but ultimately, she only told him that some mysteries are better left unsolved. 

Billie Brovchenka's death came as a devastating shock to her family and friends. She was known for being level-headed and cautious compared to her peers, typically the most responsible of her friend group. To think she would die in such a horrific fashion was appalling enough, but the reaction of some was even more distressing. 

_What did she expect, going into that place?_

_Everyone knows that if you go into Camp Crystal Lake, you die. Pure and simple._

_She really should've seen it coming. Especially the second time. Stupid girl._

But those close to her knew that she wasn't stupid. It certainly wasn't her own fault for being murdered, and she had to have had a reason to return to that place for a second time. It was later found out from O'Ryan's case notes that Billie was motivated to work with him to help find her missing friend, Noel. Later, she was additionally motivated to retrieve the killer's presumed hostage, a teenager who'd been at the camp since childhood. One of the survivors, Emmerson Hayward, attested that Billie had put up quite a fight, having severely injured the murderer prior to Emmerson dismembering them. She was far from stupid. She was brave. 

Her ex-lover had moved on before Billie's death. She was not invested in her anymore, but she heard of her death nonetheless, and she heard of the circumstances surrounding it. She did wonder if her criticisms of Billie's selfish behavior had led her to sacrifice herself for those two victims. She wondered if she'd caused Billie's death. She wondered if what happened to her was the result of some misguided chivalry, or if it was the truly noble thing to have done. Either way, she wanted to appropriately acknowledge what Billie had done, but she could not even go to the place of her death, lest she also endanger herself. She settled on simply offering a little prayer, or incantation of sorts, expressing her feelings. She didn't know if she believed in god or spirits or anything of that sort, but a part of her hoped that someone was listening, or watching. 

The murder of Chester Tilson and the disappearance of Noel King were never solved. Officially, they joined Crystal Lake's ever-growing collection of cold cases. Unofficially, all of the town's residents were well aware of their fates. Noel's body was never found. That said, some time after her disappearance, there were rumors of a young woman who patrolled the perimeter around the forest. Dressed in flowing white, she appeared almost like an angel: an effect only heightened by the twin trails of blood running down her back. Noel did not have any ill will towards anybody, let alone towards the people of Crystal Lake, even if this was the site of her gruesome death. She meant to serve as a warning to those who approached the camp. A strange twist of irony, then, that she functioned more like a siren.

Aspen was retrieved from the tunnels and treated for their wounds. They requested that they be left to die, which was denied. Even at the hospital, they repeatedly declined treatment. With their recent history, it was determined that Aspen could not make informed decisions regarding their own health. A psychological examination found that the teenager may have been suffering from severe post-traumatic stress, coupled with persistent and acute psychosis. After their physical injuries were healed, they were involuntarily committed to a psychiatric ward. Emmerson did not care to wait around for them to be discharged.

He had no reason to lie, and he didn't think it mattered anymore. He told the police what had happened, in its entirety, without embellishment or falsehood. To his surprise, they believed him. Or at least didn't try to press him to give a different story. The parts of the story they were most skeptical about were of Emmerson's supposed congeniality with the murderer, and the claim that he'd successfully 'killed' and dismembered him prior to reporting the incident. Emmerson thought it was odd, but he could not have known how many murder cases this small town has had to deal with, all with more or less the same story. Even if it was the first time these cops had heard of anyone actually associating with the Crystal Lake killer, it was not the first time they'd heard claims of his 'killing.' The method was new, and seemed promising, but they were still skeptical, to say the least. 

Emmerson's work was gone from Jason's room. Aspen told him without hesitancy that they'd burned it. The work would've been the only good thing to come of all of it, the only substantive material gained, and it was gone. But it probably wouldn't have been publishable, anyway. What reputable journal would believe that he found some regenerative humanoid creature in the forest one day? At least it would've proven to himself that it was all real, that it wasn't just an illusion. 

When he found himself in the hospital after everything, they said he had a broken rib. There was nothing they could do to fix it. He would just have to wait for it to heal itself. That day he visited Aspen, the one to blame for it. Though, they had it considerably worse: stitches in their face which would leave a permanent scar, a dislocated elbow, and a fractured tibia. They weren't going anywhere for a while. He asked them why they'd said he wasn't good enough to research Jason. Aspen asked: were your results surprising?

Emmerson wanted to say yes. Yes, it was very surprising that a human.. or human-ish creature could perform independent regeneration with such efficiency. But the mechanisms themselves were.. less surprising. He'd read everything he could find on human regeneration, which could be performed only by fetuses in early development. There is much written about their biology relative to wound healing, and the results of Jason's tests elucidated similar results to those of human fetuses.

"That is weird. Right?" Aspen asked.

Well.. no, why should it be? Obviously these biological qualities are related to regenerative healing, so why would it be weird to find those qualities again?

Aspen thought about it.

"It is weird.. that the answer is.. a mys-ter-y.. but.." they worked very hard, and very earnestly. "Everything about the 'mystery'... you already knew."

So that's what Aspen meant.. that he was finding the results that he believed would make sense. Jason was 'magic,' he didn't need to abide by the rules of the universe until the elucidator came. And it was only through the elucidator's belief did those things become reality. Aspen thought Emmerson would kill Jason by creating logical errors-- contradictions-- in the nature of Jason's physicality, making it impossible for him to 'exist' on this realm.

Emmerson didn't agree with this logic. Things 'exist' regardless of whether or not a human is there to declare it so.

Right?

Aspen also told him that elucidators tended to have strong affinities for magical practice, particularly in the magic of manifestation. But they squandered it on rationalism. 

"Emm-ie has.. potential," they told him. "Could be like me." 

Emmerson just chuckled, albeit a little a bit sadly, "That sc-scares me, Aspen. Makes me rec-cons-sider my ch-choices." 

He had lost all desire to stay in Crystal Lake. He went home for a time, working as an assistant toxicologist for a couple of years before returning to school. Despite everything, he still wanted to unlock the secrets of regeneration. He worked in a research lab that studied the complexities of the extracellular matrix in various human tissues, in hopes that they would be able to find some way to recreate those conditions in a medical context. During this time, he worked as a teaching assistant in biology and anatomy courses for undergraduates. It was impressive how blase the young man was when handling dead things. During one laboratory session, he assisted a girl who looked particularly nauseous, even behind her surgical mask, as she dissected a rabbit for anatomical examination. She asked him how he could be so comfortable while cutting open a body. He told her that he used to dissect and dismember human corpses in his free time, so a rabbit was really no big deal. She figured he was joking, but didn't like how quick and dry his response was. 

He didn't forget about everything that happened at Crystal Lake. That would be impossible, so he didn't even try to do it. But it's not like he could really open up about what happened. It wasn't exactly lighthearted conversation material, for one. Most people were antsy enough just talking with a veteran who killed a person during service. He didn't even know how to broach the topic of killing and dismembering a person without being ostracized as a homicidal maniac, even if the circumstances justified it. And who would believe the story in its entirety, anyway? Had it not happened to himself, he didn't think he would. 

For the first time, he decided he'd sit down and talk it out with someone appropriately suited for the job. He did have to change the story a bit, but the therapist didn't need to know every little detail. In the end, it wasn't about forgetting it happened, nor accepting that everything that happened was okay. It was about figuring out why it happened, and what he can learn from it.

He went back home after he got his master's degree, taking a break before pursuing his doctorate. He returned with a woman by his side, another graduate student of medicine. She was Polish, a few years older than Emmerson, and primarily interested in child and adolescent development. Naturally, his family asked when they were planning on having kids.

Emmerson laughed, a little nervous, but firm when he said, "No.. I don't really want kids." 

The hospital and police department attempted to contact members of Aspen's family, in an attempt to find a more suitable residence than the campsite. But most had hardly known them, even when they were a child, and had no intention of letting a near-stranger live with them. Aspen's next of kin was a brother twelve years their senior, Ciarán, who at fourteen moved in with now-deceased grandparents due to personal conflicts with his parents. Unforunately, it seemed Ciarán was just as much an elusive recluse as their younger sibling, as his whereabouts could not be determined with the limited resources available. Without any suitable relatives with whom Aspen could be homed with, after being released from the psychiatric ward following a three-week stay, they unsurprisingly returned to Camp Crystal Lake.

Aspen knew what Emmerson had done. Nobody had done it before, and Aspen was distraught as they thought he might not come back from it. They trudged about the forest, looking for overturned spots of dirt which might have held pieces of their Puppy. But it was impossible to survey every inch of this forest of their own. They managed to recover a few pieces, and a couple of pieces of some other bodies. But they knew it'd be impossible to find them all, with the already-miniscule chance dwindling with every passing day.

On one expedition, they found Puppy's machete, lodged in a tree. It took a lot of patience and wiggling, but it eventually came free. The weapon had claimed countless lives, but it was a symbol of their dear friend, enemy, love, brother, child, and pet. Holding it was the closest thing they could get to holding him. By the time the symptoms of autumn had begun to develop, Aspen had lost all hope. The watchers lost interest after the histrionics ended, and the forest was deafeningly silent. Sterile.

Aspen thought it would be appropriate that they might also die with the leaves and the vegetation this autumn, but they didn't know how. They would have loved to use Jason's own machete to sacrifice themself upon his funeral pyre, but the desecration of his body denied him of proper funerary rites.

Without a good way to end their own performance, they occupied some strange space between being alive and being dead, waiting for death or for the return of their companion. They thought of the elucidator, who had not found the answers, but managed to take everything from them anyway.

And they remembered something. A precept that was so ubiquitous that it was accepted by elucidators and witches since time immemorial.

_A watched pot never boils._

So Aspen had to find some way to wait for the water to boil. There was a convent in a neighboring town which they joined for a short period. They were wary of the teenager, but willing to give them a chance. That was hastily rescinded when they explained that God's miracles were akin to witchcraft.

So they left. They went to an adjacent forest, repeating their childhood dream of living as a witch in the woods. It was too difficult without a shelter, and without their dear Puppy to assist them. So they inhabited the town's streets instead, singing (poorly) for tips, or cleaning windows for change. They were known by the town's residents as a local mentally-ill homeless girl, and were looked upon with pity, but not derision. They were eventually offered a live-in job as a housekeeper by a middle-aged woman for her elderly mother. Aspen accepted the job, requesting only shelter, food, and other necessities rather than pay, and specified they would not accept touching or being touched.

The elderly woman was mentally sound, but had physical disabilities that make cooking, cleaning, and basic mobility difficult on her own. She was gentle and mild-mannered, and a bit of a typical 'old lady,' having worked as a school teacher prior to retirement. Aspen would accompany her to go birdwatching in the parks, or to feed pigeons in town. They'd talk about books over afternoon tea. It surprised the old woman how eclectic Aspen's thoughts and ideas were, but how they simultaneously had a poor grasp on the very basic and ubiquitous aspects of social life. They would eventually become close, and Aspen told her that their parents had died when they were a child, and they ran away from foster care. They ended up living with a sort of adoptive big brother figure. Aspen's eyes would get misty talking about it, saying that they were waiting for him to 'return' from somewhere. Clearly it was a sensitive topic, so the old woman never pried or judged the housekeeper's feelings, as questionable as the situation seemed to be. 

Aspen lived and worked there for three years, until the woman died in her sleep one April morning. It hurt Aspen to lose a friend, and they mourned her passing with her family. Even though they lost their only confidant, they had known this would come eventually, given her poor health and old age. And with having witnessed so many deaths already, Aspen was not shocked. They were glad that she at least retained her humanity in passing. They hoped they might meet the old woman in her next life, or at least stay and watch for a little while. 

Aspen, now 23, had no other job prospects and no savings. They had become accustomed to living in society, learning quite a lot about all sorts of funny things, like utility bills and small talk and paying taxes. But it was a strange and foreign world nonetheless, filled with unspoken rules they'd never fully grasp, and people who didn't say what they meant. It wasn't the people themselves, per se: they were nice, most of the time, and Aspen thought they had good intentions, even if they were flawed and they hurt each other constantly. No, it felt like there was a deeper disconnect. They always felt like their illness was what kept them separated from people, and it certainly didn't help things. But the longer Aspen lived in the 'real world,' they realized that there was always something blocking them from other people, ever since they were a little child. In the end, Aspen could never shake the feeling that this was not their home. More than that, they began to feel that this world was simply not built for people like themself. So they would always feel 'other.' 

They never forgot their dear Puppydog. Years ago, they promised him, and themself, that they'd return some day.

So with no other direction, Aspen gave a final request to their employer: that they take them to Crystal Lake. She told Aspen that the place was rumored to be haunted, and that actual murders and disappearances had taken place there, years ago. Aspen assured them it was just gossip.

The camp was beautiful as ever. Little patches of violet wildflowers bloomed from the grasses, and soft buds sprouted from the trees. It had rained here not too long ago, the dirt not quite muddy, but still soft and rich. The air was not as stagnant as when they'd left, but it was peaceful nonetheless. They followed the same route as always, this time wearing the oxfords that were standard for their uniform. Aspen still knew the fastest routes, and the little house was just as they'd remembered. The scent of the rotting wood became strong as they approached. It was a smell they'd forgotten after living in a sterile atmosphere for so long, and which was always strongest after it rained. Moss and vines seemed to have taken over more of its exterior over the home, only further solidifying the structure's place as a natural feature of the forest. 

They smoothed down their linen dress, suddenly nervous for this big moment. They'd never had to reunite with family or friends like this before. What if he wasn't there? What if he was really gone for good? Or maybe.. he forgot about Aspen? Were they just another outsider to him now? It was very hard not to worry, with so much on the line and four years of anticipation building in their heart. But Aspen knew they couldn't let it consume them. There was always one thing that Aspen was best at: believing. They had to believe that Puppy was here, and that he loved them, just like he used to. 

With a little incantation for good measure, they step up the porch, the front door opening with their approach.

"Pup! Pup!"


End file.
